My grandfather has been sick for a long time.

Cancer, heart problems, lung problems… you name it.

In the past year or so, however, things have definitely gone downhill.

Mr. Tough Ass no longer rebounds.

If you know him, you know why it’s hard to watch that happen.

They don’t make guys like him anymore — old school, crew cut, workbench, waxed car, perfect lawn… all pride and dignity and earsplitting laugh.

Mind you, we don’t always see eye to eye.

He doesn’t get what I do for a living. He asks me every time he sees me why I’m not married yet. He rolls his eyes at my liberal opinions. He makes fun of my earrings.

But he also updates me on the hockey score as soon as I walk into his house. He cried at the poem I wrote for my grandmother’s funeral. He cried again when he heard I couldn’t have my own babies.

And he thinks I’m smart (-mouthed) and beautiful and funny. Even when I’m not.

That’s why the thought of losing him always makes me feel a little adrift.

I hope it doesn’t happen anytime soon.

He’s in hospital tonight, though, so he’s on my mind.

Your Schmeaghan loves you, Poppa.

And I’m so sorry it hurts.