My grandfather is dying. He may be shuffling off his mortal coil in the next few days. The last time I saw him he was still walking around, making jokes, poking fun of my grandmother. Now, I’m told, he spends most of the time with his eyes closed. He doesn’t eat. It has not been that long.

We call my grandfather Sir. It seems so stiff and formal to people who don’t know him. Who don’t know us. It started out as a joke when my mom was pregnant with me, the first grandchild. Sir doesn’t like grandfatherly names like “grandpa” or “grandpop.”  Someone asked what he would like the first grandbaby to call him. He said, jokingly, Sir. Thirty years later that is what we call him. It is perfect.

My grandfather grew up in Frankfurt, Pennsylvania.  He was, almost literally, found on a doorstep. He was raised by two loving and caring people that he knew as his parents. Only after they died did he learn that they were not his biological parents. To him, they were and would always be his parents. He survived the Great Depression with much more than most people had. As a child he had a pony.

Sir, as I have told everyone I have ever known, was in the 101st Airborne in World War II. He jumped onto the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. He landed in the water and was trapped under his parachute. Someone pulled him up and saved his life. His experience in Europe was traumatic. It took him decades to be able to talk about it. He participated in the 101st Airborne Association and held numerous elected positions. He went to reunions, including the 50th Anniversary of D-Day in France. In 2004 he represented WWII veterans on the field at the Superbowl (Eagles v. Patriots). He got to meet Presidents Clinton and G.W. Bush. (He refused to shake Clinton’s hand!)

When I was a kid, probably around 1992, Sir and Grandmom took me on a road trip to Corpus Christi, Texas to attend a 101st Airborne Reunion. We drove, about 500 miles a day, stopping in various cities. I saw Churchill Downs, crossed over the Mississippi River, went to New Orleans for the first time and visited the Alamo. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. It meant so much to me, even then, to arrive in Corpus Christi and meet all of the veterans, heroes of World War II.

My grandfather is a war veteran, a former small business owner, a school teacher, a loving father of five and a grandfather of twelve. He answers the phone in his serious voice, but when you tell him it’s you, his voice lights up.  He wears dungarees and slippers. He drinks tea. He whistles happy little songs. He writes in block letters and he puts smiley faces on our birthday checks. He loves his country. He refers to my grandmother as “Grandmom” or “Mommy,” just like his children and his grandchildren do.  And he loves her so, so much.

I can’t go visit. I’m not strong enough. I can’t have my final memory of him be of a sick man. That is not how I want to remember him. I know it is selfish. Or it seems so selfish to me. But I just can’t do it.  I love him. He’s my Sir. My grandfather.  My hero.