Spring 2025 Blossom Law PLLC Caregiver Scholarship Winner

Grant Herridge

In his essay, Grant shares a heartfelt account of the time leading up to his grandfather’s sudden passing. Through this experience, he gained eye-opening insights that will stay with him throughout his life. Congratulations, Grant, your strength and resilience are truly inspiring!

Read his essay here:

It was my eighth summer to be at camp, my home away from home. Two weeks of the summer where I lost contact with the outside world, falling into the rhythm of camp life, reconnecting with friends who lived far away and making memories. As soon as I returned home, I was set to go on an epic three-week National Park road trip with my grandfather. Our first stop was the Grand Canyon, where we would white water raft and hike. From there we were going to Yosemite and Glacier. We had planned it for months, and I had all of our hikes organized in a note on my phone. This was surely going to be the best summer ever.

I got a sinking feeling in my gut when my parents called on my drive home from camp, asking if I would meet them at the park next to our house instead of coming directly home. I parked and walked up to the bench where they were sitting. A sad and heavy energy emanated from them. We hugged and then they broke the news…while I had been at camp, my grandfather had suffered what was initially thought to be a stroke. However, the brain scans showed that he had late stage brain cancer evidenced by two large glioblastomas. The news that sucked all the air from my lungs was hearing them say that he likely only had four months to live. They told me that he had already moved into our home, started hospice, and that we would be providing all of his care. I sat there, unable to hold back the tears, my mind spinning and my heart breaking. How could my whole life turn upside down in just two weeks? How could I lose my seemingly healthy grandfather so suddenly?

He had moved into our guest room while I was gone. The first few weeks were relatively normal, but then the disease started taking its toll. His memory got fuzzy. He would ask about the day’s itinerary, but once you told him what was planned, he would inquire again. I noticed my father had little patience for him and started writing out the day’s schedule on a piece of paper, telling my grandfather to re-read it every time he asked a question. My grandfather’s appetite changed. He had cravings for fish, something we never ate as a family. My mom, who had a demanding job, would come home after work and start her second shift, cooking for him or picking up food that he wanted. It seemed like someone had to go to the grocery store every other day to fuel his fresh fruit obsession. His specific food requests piled up and I watched my parents accommodate him, but I also saw their exhaustion starting to emerge.

Six weeks in, things were getting worse. He could no longer get around without a walker. He would bump into walls and had trouble navigating corners. He was insistent about drinking his coffee on the front porch and my father would reprimand him about the dangers of going outside and potentially falling on the concrete. My grandfather had grown up on a ranch in west Texas and I knew that being outside was like medicine for his soul. The arguing about what he wanted to do versus what my father felt he was capable of doing intensified.

At around eight weeks my grandfather started mixing up his nights and days. He would sleep a lot during the day, and then be up at night. At nighttime, my father would scold my grandfather, telling him that he had to stay in his room until morning. Inevitably, around 3am we would hear the shower turn on in the hall bathroom, and my grandfather banging around, trying to get undressed. My father would get up and help him and try to get him back to bed, but my grandfather didn’t want to sleep. One night we all awakened to a huge crashing sound. We found my grandfather lying on his side in our sunken sunroom, plants and furniture knocked over and his glasses missing. He had gotten lost going from his room to the kitchen. My dad yelled at him harshly, telling him that he had to stay in his room at night, that it wasn’t safe to leave it. I could see the toll this was taking on my mom and my dad. Before my grandfather moved in, our house was a calm and happy place. We often played games in the evening, or watched tv together. Now our days were marred by grief and loss, which had a sneaky way of presenting as anger sometimes. And everyone seemed so exhausted. It was as if a great sadness had settled over our home.

By ten weeks, a hospital bed was delivered and set up in the middle of our living room. My grandfather spent most of his time in bed. I had to help my father get him to the bathroom, and when he couldn’t make it in time, I had to help clean him up. My grandfather was talking less, and his eyes had a faraway look. He had moments of clarity, but more moments of confusion. He never lost his sweet tooth though, he ate bowls upon bowls of salty vanilla ice cream and boxes of Mr. Good Bars.

When the end came, it came quick. He stopped talking and eating. My mom and dad were instructed by the hospice staff how to administer his pain medication. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his muffled cries and moans – I hope one day they fade from my memory. He slipped from this world to the next late on a Friday night while my mom and dad held his hands. I was out with friends and they called me home. I didn’t want to see him, I wanted to keep my memories of him as they had been just a short twelve weeks prior.

My grandfather’s death was so much for all of us to process. The diagnosis came out of nowhere, and our lives were upended so quickly. My mom, dad, little sister and I became caregivers overnight. We had no training or preparation. His decline was so abrupt that as soon as we got used to his behavior, it changed. Between all of us, we had middle school, high school, extracurricular activities, and two full time jobs. Having to provide around the clock care was demanding and draining. Caring for him in his last days was a great privilege and honor, and it was also so profoundly hard.

Our experience changed me forever. Before my grandfather’s cancer diagnosis, if I heard that someone had a major illness or health challenge, I only thought about how hard it must be for the sick person. I never thought about how their illness affected their spouse or children, and what the burden of caregiving might be like. I have such empathy now for families. Caregiving is a noble task, but one that also comes with strings of fatigue, stress, and grief attached. As I move forward in life, I will be mindful of how to show support for not only the sick, but also the caregivers.

Our hospice nurse and the hospice doctor were so perceptive and so kind. They never seemed rushed, they would patiently answer all of our questions. They also had a remarkable ability to sit in the hardness, bearing witness to the harsh reality facing us. There are so many causes to support, but giving to non-profit hospice organizations is a worthy endeavor. They stand with families in their darkest night, giving care to the ill and also caring for the caregivers. I will always champion their work and can see myself volunteering for a local hospice in the future.

I learned a lot about grief through our caregiving experience. I learned that grief doesn’t start once your loved one passes away. I grieved so many things while we cared for my dying grandfather. I grieved the trip we didn’t get to take and not being able to make those special memories with him. I grieved for him and with him as each of his senses and abilities were slowly taken away from him. I watched my parents reactions and responses and learned that sometimes grief can present as anger and frustration. I learned that grief can make you feel lonely, overwhelmed, forgetful, anxious, exhausted, and unbearably sad. I can now empathize with others in a special way and I can encourage them that while grief is a hard road to walk, they are not alone.

My grandfather was an incredible man and I loved him so very much. He faced his death with dignity, faith, and hope. Throughout my life he taught me many lessons – how to fish, what a proper handshake is, how to tie a tie, how to drive a car, how to show respect to others, how to work hard, and many more. While dying he taught me about resiliency and the importance of family. He cared for all of us so generously; caring for him as he approached death was our last and best gift to him.