First of all, I want to thank everyone for their vibes and good wishes every time I've asked for them.
My Punka (that was my name for my Grandpa that I gave him when I was 2) passed away this morning. He had emphysema, among other things (diabetes, heart disease, asthma) and was 86 1/2 years old. He was dropped at an orphanage with his siblings when he was a toddler, grew through the great depression, fought in World War 2, went on to have 3 kids and 5 grandkids, survived 2 open heart surgeries, etc...he was just generally a survivor, and despite his risks and ailing health railied for over a year before finally getting tired and going to sleep last night never to wake up. He was in a care facility because he was totally immobile at this point and had several asthma attacks over the past 3 weeks.
My Punka retired shortly before I was born and watched me every single day before I started kindergarten because my parents were both working full time. We went on walks and watched the trains at the train station, watched Mr. Rogers, ate chicken soup, counted pennies, listened to Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman and ELla Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong and Artie Shaw, danced, wrote with chalk on the sidewalk, built snowmen, went sledding, rode bikes, read stories, made art projects...everything a childhood should be. But it wasn't just a charmed childhood and the fact that he taught me how to read, write and do simple math before I even went to kindergarten...we remained close always. We collected statehood quarters together. He would often write me letters and clip articles in the paper that he thought I might be interested in. He was so involved in all of my interests and activities, and he never missed a single thing...he was even at my senior recital just over a month ago. Needless to say, I will miss him tremendously. I wish I could get angry, but I can't...he was tired, he was 87 and he was ready to go. He got to live his whole life and was lucky to have survived as much as he did. And we were lucky to have him.
My Punka (that was my name for my Grandpa that I gave him when I was 2) passed away this morning. He had emphysema, among other things (diabetes, heart disease, asthma) and was 86 1/2 years old. He was dropped at an orphanage with his siblings when he was a toddler, grew through the great depression, fought in World War 2, went on to have 3 kids and 5 grandkids, survived 2 open heart surgeries, etc...he was just generally a survivor, and despite his risks and ailing health railied for over a year before finally getting tired and going to sleep last night never to wake up. He was in a care facility because he was totally immobile at this point and had several asthma attacks over the past 3 weeks.
My Punka retired shortly before I was born and watched me every single day before I started kindergarten because my parents were both working full time. We went on walks and watched the trains at the train station, watched Mr. Rogers, ate chicken soup, counted pennies, listened to Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman and ELla Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong and Artie Shaw, danced, wrote with chalk on the sidewalk, built snowmen, went sledding, rode bikes, read stories, made art projects...everything a childhood should be. But it wasn't just a charmed childhood and the fact that he taught me how to read, write and do simple math before I even went to kindergarten...we remained close always. We collected statehood quarters together. He would often write me letters and clip articles in the paper that he thought I might be interested in. He was so involved in all of my interests and activities, and he never missed a single thing...he was even at my senior recital just over a month ago. Needless to say, I will miss him tremendously. I wish I could get angry, but I can't...he was tired, he was 87 and he was ready to go. He got to live his whole life and was lucky to have survived as much as he did. And we were lucky to have him.
