A final thank you to a soldier

This July, my grandfather, a World War II veteran, engaged in his final battle.

Cod never spoke much about the war, at least not to me. Or, if he did, I didn't listen. I wasn't much interested in battle stories. What I do know is that he was a tank commander, that he gave candy to German children, and that in his closet he housed a German Luger of whose provenance he would only offer a gruff, "Well, I got it somehow."

This summer, though, I was listening. Listening, as the weeks stretched on, to the daily medical updates by phone and email from my grandmother, mother, uncles, cousins. Listening to the predictions of the doctors and then of Hospice. Listening, praying. Checking flights. Making reservations. Understanding the ultimate outcome: He would lose this battle.

Thinking about how to say goodbye.


Nearly 70 years ago, many people never got to say goodbye. Sure, they kissed departing soldiers at the train stations, uttered hopeful "See you soon!"s and "Hurry home!"s. But in the fields of Europe and Asia, soldiers died alone. Their families grieved alone. It was too late for goodbyes.


Cod was lucky. He made it home. He came back and married his sweetheart. They had five kids. He ran gas stations, managed the St. Vincent de Paul Store. Stayed in the same Iowa farmland his entire life.


In his last days, he had children who could say goodbye. And grandchildren. And great-grandchildren. He had a legacy.

Those soldiers who never made it home, who never had their own children or grandchildren -- they left a legacy, too. Their legacy was one of freedom -- freedom for others, at any cost.

But sometimes legacies are only apparent in a person's shadow. On that July morning while Cod underwent a biopsy that would determine the remainder of his life, I wasn't thinking too hard about legacies. We were on vacation in Ohio, and I was watching the kids take their first cracks (literally) at putt-putt at a tourist attraction dairy where you could smack balls into holes, pet some goats and gobble down fresh ice cream.

Still, Cod was on my mind.

While we tried to keep Dominic from maiming his siblings with his golf club, Cod was in an operating room under a fluorescent light. While the kids clamored for bubblegum ice cream, doctors were biopsying his tumor. And while we sat there amidst other noisy families eating our ice cream, soldiers were dying in far-off places.


As I was thinking this, a group of five people in camouflage fatigues walked through the door. I watched them order their ice cream, then stand in a corner eating it. I thought of my grandfather, of boating on the Mississippi, of riding in the bucket seat of his station wagon. Of eating bowl after bowl of buttered air-popped popcorn. I thought of him hearing the results of the biopsy.


I left my family and walked across the crowded restaurant. The soldiers didn't hear me as I approached; only when I nervously broached an "Excuse me," did they grant me their attention. I can't say they looked pleased to see me -- I was interrupting their ice cream consumption, after all. I nearly scampered off back to where Dominic was hollering for more ice cream. But then I looked into the eyes of one of the young men, and I wondered where those eyes would ultimately close -- if it would be while looking into the kind eyes of those who loved him, or on a field in some far-off country. And I wondered if anyone had ever thanked him for risking his life so that I could eat ice cream with my children and husband.

And then I realized I had never thanked my grandfather. He was, to me, Grandpa first, a soldier second. He was the man who gave me his bowl of popcorn, commanded me to obey my mother, walked me through snowy streets on winter nights.

I told those soldiers about Cod, about his battle. I asked for their prayers on his behalf. I said, "Thank you for what you do. For keeping us all safe." I was horribly inarticulate. Then I slunk away, and I gave the rest of my ice cream cone to Dominic and watched him smear it all over his face.


A month later, Dominic was with me in Iowa. By then the family knew what the outcome would be. We knew it wouldn't be long. Cod, the former soldier, was confined to a hospital bed that had replaced the couch in the living room. Its presence was a testament to how much he was loved -- there would be no putting him behind closed doors, no hospital stays. He would die at home, his wife of 65 years at his side.

He would accomplish what so many soldiers never did.

It wasn't easy to watch. It wasn't easy for his children to rearrange their schedules for around-the-clock care of their father. Still, the house was filled with cheer as family danced in and out, a complicated but good-natured tag-teaming of coordinated care. It meant extended time off from work, late nights working on laptops, long drives after long days. It meant cutting short European vacations. It meant hours -- days -- without sleep.


I never heard a single complaint.

This is how death should happen. At home, with family. Knowing that you are loved. Not in a foreign field at the point of a stranger's gun. Not wondering whether the world will remember you. Not worrying whether your legacy will endure.

The soldier's legacies did, of course. We celebrate them today. Those brave soldiers exhaled freedom with their final breaths. Freedom for the world, for their families who would never get to say goodbye.
And as I prepared to say goodbye to my grandfather, I realized that he had left another legacy: one of love, of family unity. Just as he and others sacrificed on the battlefields of war, Cod's children sacrificed in the final days of his life. They would be there; their father would die at home, whatever the cost. They would honor a soldier's last wish.


I didn't stay until the end. I left four days too soon. But as I held my son, our bags packed and at the door, I kissed my grandfather's wizened forehead and I whispered my last words to a brave soldier. "Thank you."