Last Thursday my grandfather fell at his nursing home and broke his hip.  On Friday, he had surgery to replace that hip.  On Sunday, he woke up seemed very confused by me.  Yesterday (Tuesday), he finally woke up and knew who people were.

It has been a rough couple of days to say the least.

Partially because we weren’t sure he was going to make it.  Partially because we were afraid he would make it.  And so we sat in hospital chairs, murmuring back and forth that everything was going to be okay.

I did a lot of writing since Thursday, but all of it was intensely personal.  I thought about posting it but I realized that if I got one negative comment on what I wrote, I would be devastated.  And if I can’t handle the criticism for what I write, I shouldn’t be sharing.

But yesterday, my grandfather woke up.  And this time he knew who I was.

It is really hard to see him like this.  Because this is so different from the way he lived his life.  And when the person you respect most in the world looks at you and says “I really thought someone would have shot me before I got to this point,” it can break your heart.

After I fed my grandfather dinner last night and left the hospital, I started wondering about how you measure lifelong success.  Or if you can even measure it at all.  In the twilight of life, what are the markers of success that really matter?

My grandfather wrote a list of things to be included in his eulogy in 1985 when he retired from his career.  I was three years old at the time.  He ended it with a statement about spending his retirement with his granddaughter and living happily ever after. Twenty-three years later: Did he really live happily ever after?

If we look at the 1985 list of accomplishments and then ask the question “was this life successful”, I think it is easy to come to the conclusion, that yes it was.  But when we move forward over twenty years and ask the same question, reaching the same conclusion becomes complicated.

The last twenty years have been stagnant.

And maybe that’s what he really wanted.

But it seems at conflict with the first sixty-five years of life.  And I have a hard time believing someone worked so hard for 65 years just to let it all go so quickly.

Maybe the apathy is a symptom of a larger problem that I am just not seeing.

I think this is so disconcerting to me is because I see a lot of my grandfather in me.  And I fear living my twilight years in the same condition that he has lived his.

I would hope that I would keep growing and changing well into retirement. I would hope that I would continue to do one thing that terrifies me each day until I die.

So now I’m left with questions. How do I live my life? Do I need to change the way I live now in order to ensure my own happiness sixty years from now? Will the decisions I make today impact my ability to die with dignity?