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And now for something completely different.

Going on fourteen years ago now, my great-uncle (my grandfather's older brother) passed away. The eulogy the funeral director gave was a bit clunky and stilted, but it got the point across: he had been much loved, and would be much missed. I hadn't known him all that well, but something I heard at the funeral home made me cry. I'd heard someone mention a special two-dollar bill, and wondered what that was all about. Apparently, Grandpa and his brothers had each carried a two-dollar bill during their service in the war (WWII), and none of them had ever suffered an injury of any sort. The two-dollar bills was an important family talisman. So, one was torn in half. Half was placed in my great-uncle's suit pocket, and the other half was given to Grandpa. And Grandpa said, "We can't spend it until we're together again."

In early (very early, like just after New Year's) 2005, Grandpa was experiencing enough shortness of breath to go to the hospital (he didn't like to complain, so we knew he must have been feeling pretty bad). There, the family doctor diagnosed him with congestive heart failure. He was ready to get rid of it, telling the doctor that he really wanted to be around to celebrate his sixtieth wedding anniversary. Surgery was scheduled, and everyone became very worried: after all, he was 84 years old, with a chronic health condition on top of the CHF. What if he didn't even make it through the surgery? But he did, and everyone was very happy, and preparations were made for a joyful homecoming.

But his recovery was slow, and full of difficulties, and he ended up being hospitalized for quite a while. This was hard for him, of course, and tough for his wife and daughters too. Finally, the doctors sent him home to continue his recovery there, since the rehabiliation sessions at the hospital didn't seem to be helping much. He was glad to be home, of course, but physically he wasn't very comfortable, and had terrible trouble sleeping. He was ready to rest, he told my mother.

Several days later, he was readmitted to the hospital with a roaring fever. The day after that, a Sunday, I briefly visited his hospital room (Boy Wonder, almost two at the time, had been jumping around and had smacked his face into the coffee table, biting through his lower lip and bleeding all over the place), where one of my aunts sat red-eyed by his bed. I could tell by looking at him, and by looking at her, that he wouldn't be going home this time.

That Thursday, my father called around five in the afternoon, and said that my grandfather had begun experiencing irregular heart rhythms, and that he would call when he had more news. He called about five hours later.

My grandfather died on March 3, 2005, with his third daughter by his side and the rest of his family thinking of him. Hopefully he and his older brother spent that two-dollar bill shortly thereafter. We miss him – even Boy Wonder, who still recognizes pictures of him and asks about "Papa" from time to time. And I've left the "in pace" off of this post's title; he was a peaceful man in life, and I'm sure his peace continues, wherever he is.

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