Dollbaby

            Dollbaby. That's what he called me. I remember Granddaddy's special way of eating grapefruit - glasses on to prevent the acidic juices from attacking his eyes. I remember his special blue recliner where he would gracefully lounge for his Sunday afternoon naps. No work was allowed on Sundays as it was - and still is - the Lord's day. I remember that blue recliner as his cradle for entertaining guests once the diagnosis came - fatal, terminal lung cancer.
            Even as his days grew harder, he didn't hesitate to be the stern but loving disciplinarian. As the oldest grandchild, I was often held responsible for younger cousins' (and brother's) actions. This time was no different. We thought we would be sneaky and throw dirt clogs at passing cars. (Why we ever thought that was a good idea, I still do not know.) And, hit a car we did. Except it wasn't a sweet little old lady driving the car. It was a cantankerous, white-bearded man with a boat of a car. We hit that car squarely on the driver's side window. Immediately the driver slammed on his brakes. And immediately the three of us made a beeline for the barn. We scrambled to the loft and peered through the old barn's slats to spy on the happenings.
            As the man climbed out of his car, we trembled with fear. Granddaddy met him at the back door. Though we couldn't hear the words, we could certainly read the body language. After what seemed like hours, but was probably mere minutes, the man left, and we crept out of the barn.
            With my head hung low and my tail tucked between my legs, I cautiously walked up onto the back stoop. Granddaddy was waiting for me. Though I can't recall his words of correction, I do remember the shame I felt from his admonition. I vowed to never displease him again. (I also remember the threat of a switching if I pulled a stunt like that again.)
            It wasn't long after that moment that the cancer got the best of him. As he was waiting for the ambulance to come take him to the hospital, he called me into the parlor. As he sat on that narrow, rented, borrowed hospital bed, he witnessed to me. He shared how Christ was the center of his life. That he wasn't afraid to die because he knew without a doubt that he would live eternally in Heaven with Jesus.
            When the ambulance attendants came to carry him away, I slipped away out the front door. I couldn't stand the thought of seeing him strapped to the stretcher. This man, who called me dollbaby, living in a broken body.
            As the ambulance circled around the driveway, I knew deep within my eight-year-old heart that the moments I had just spent with him would be the last I would spend with him alive. And I said a silent good-bye again, one last time.