Moments of truth have a funny way of blindsiding you when you’re looking the other way. Just yesterday, I spent most of the day with my father’s father, my only surviving grandparent. In the morning, I drove up to San Francisco with my dad and my brother to pick up my grandfather. When we arrived, he wasn’t ready yet. So the three of us parked outside my grandfather’s apartment and walked across the street to buy some food. On our way back to the apartment, I hear my brother say, in an anxious tone, “he’s already out.” Immediately, my dad bolts across the street and grabs onto my grandfather, making sure he doesn’t trip and fall. I know San Francisco isn’t very hospitable to the elderly, what with the steep hills and all, but Jesus.

It was like that the entire day. Everywhere we went, my dad made sure that somebody was always helping my grandfather walk this way or that. The man is 84 years old and he has a cane, but I’ve never seen him stumble once while walking on his own. Of course, my dad probably knows what he’s doing since he spends infinitely more time with my grandfather than I do. But I remember just five years ago, my grandfather’s mobility was never an issue.

From San Francisco, we drove down to Half Moon Bay to visit my grandmother’s grave. She died in January of 2000, but it all seems like it was ages ago. My grandfather spent most of our visit in the car, although he did come out briefly to pay respects to my grandmother. Staring at that gravestone was nothing short of surreal. I remembered that, just two years ago, I had witnessed the coffin being lowered and the grave being filled with soil. But for some reason, I had blocked all memory of the gravestone. Yesterday, as I looked down at my grandmother’s grave, all I could see was the word “ZING” staring up at me in block letters. At that moment, I was reminded that, like my grandmother and so many others that have died before and after her, I am equally entitled to death. I had come to that realization long ago when my mother took me to visit her parents’ graves; but I guess the blow was softened because their last name is different from my own.

By dinnertime, we met up with my aunt (my dad’s sister), her husband, and her four-year-old son at a restaurant. When my grandfather wanted to go to the restroom, it became my reluctant responsibility to escort him. It’s not as if I minded helping out. I just felt guilty for questioning his ability to take care of himself. I followed behind him as he slowly made his way from the table to the other side of the room. He has a clumsy way of handling his cane, making me wonder if he’ll ever get used to using it properly. He’d lift the cane, plant it slightly forward and take a step, and then drag it for a few more steps, forcing anybody behind him to walk at a distance. Maybe he does that on purpose. Maybe he does it as a way of telling people to back off and to let him retain at least a shred of dignity in his old age. Just maybe. As it turned out, he didn’t need my help at all. For that, I’m thankful. If and when the time comes that my grandfather should truly need my help, I’d do anything for him. But until then, I’m not going to bury him yet.