One Cool Dude

THAT DECEMBER DAY IN 2014, I bounced my baby on my knee and tried to occupy my toddler while my 92-year-old grandfather rummaged through the closet for the right polo shirt to wear for our first trip to the Asheville, North Carolina, VA hospital. “Some people might think I’m prissy,” Grandaddy Bill said in his lilting Southern accent, “but I just like to look nice.” My grandfather had moved into our basement apartment from my sister’s house a month ago so that I could care for him as his Parkinson’s disease and mild dementia progressed.

I’d known this new arrangement was never going to be easy. But I was surprised that I was already gritting my teeth. Just convincing him to go in for a checkup today had been a struggle. “I hate being moved around,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t lived this long.”

An hour later, I wheeled Grandaddy Bill into the VA hospital. “Careful!” he yelled. “I’m sorry,” I