05/23/2026
When I was 18 years of age I watched my grandfather take his last breath. I was the only one present in the room. I sat on the right side of his bed, towards the foot, clinching his fragile hand in mine. It was an emotional moment as one could only imagine. A moment filled with sorrow, and yet the slightest bit of joy knowing he was finally at peace.
I was his sole caregiver for a handful of months prior to his passing. My father worked tirelessly to provide for the family, while helping my mother focused on her own health. Just days after my grandfather’s Esophageal Cancer diagnosis, my mother had found out she had Breast Cancer. To add to all this chaos, my grandmother had suffered a stroke, forcing my family to move her from Bergen County into a nursing facility closer to us here in Barnegat.
At this time my brother Adam was off at college, focusing on his study, and I was given the task of caring for my grandfather. I drove him to his oncology appointments. I fed him each of his meals. Liquids. That’s all he could have. Chocolate, Strawberry or Vanilla Ensure throughout the day. I would joke with him often and say “I hear you like the Strawberry the best” knowing damn well he couldn’t taste a thing as I injected it into his feeding tube. I was even tasked with helping him after the use of the bathroom as well as bathing him daily. Each time he sat on the toilet, he would tell me “keep the door open. If I fall you won’t be able to open the door with me lying behind it!”. This was a learning experience many 18 year olds will never have to face, but I didn’t mind. This was my family. Someone I truly cared for in every way.