In December 2015, my grandfather passed away after several heart attacks and strokes in a short period.
Even now, it’s hard for me to write about it because it’s a part of my life that still needs healing.
My grandfather was someone special—a real “people person” who connected with everyone around him.
If I had to describe him, I’d say he was a tough teddy bear. He had this strong exterior, but deep down, he was incredibly loving, especially as he got older.
He adored his family and always wanted us close by.
Some of my favourite memories with him revolve around food. I’ll never forget the lemon pepper chicken he made for one of our family gatherings.
He also loved his smoked snoek, and I cherished watching him prepare it from scratch—carefully seasoning it and hanging it up to dry with such precision. Those simple moments are treasures now.
When my mom called to tell me he had a stroke and was in the hospital, I didn’t panic. My grandfather was a fighter, and I convinced myself he would pull through, just like before.
But even so, I needed to see him, just to make sure.
When I walked into his hospital room, I was shocked. The man lying there didn’t look like the grandfather I knew.
He was weak and couldn’t speak.
The only way he could communicate was through noises. At first, I thought he must be in pain, but my step-grandmother explained that he made the most noise when he heard my brother’s and my names.
That hit me hard—he knew we were there, even if he couldn’t tell us.
Before I left, I said a prayer for him and whispered that I’d see him soon.
A few weeks later, after visiting my mom, we were heading home late when my phone didn’t ring as it should have.
My mom called my partner’s phone instead. I could tell something was wrong just by the tone of his voice.
When I heard him say, “Okay, we’ll turn around and come back,” I knew—my grandfather was gone.
We rushed to the hospital to be with the family, and the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken grief.
No one said much, but we all tried to be strong, even though the pain was clear in our eyes.
I didn’t want to believe it. I kept wishing for one last moment with him, one last chance to tell him how much he meant to all of us, how loved he was by so many.
In the months and years that followed, I struggled with regret.
Every year on the anniversary of his death, I felt a wave of guilt. I hated myself for not visiting him one more time, for assuming we had more time together.
I took those moments for granted, and it haunted me.
But deep down, I know my grandfather wouldn’t want me to carry that burden.
He wasn’t the kind of person to dwell on negatives.
I believe he’d want me to celebrate his life, not mourn his death—by doing good for others, just like he always did.
Healing takes time, and I’m still working through it.
But I carry my grandfather’s lessons with me: to cherish the time we have, to connect genuinely with others, and to find joy in the little things.
That’s how he lived, and that’s how I want to honour him.
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