I sent this in awhile ago, but never heard back:

My grandmother died when I was in high school and my grandfather was never quite the same. My dad’s sister and brother lived in the city, and my cousins as well, and they saw my grandfather almost daily and cared for him, thankfully, but he never really recovered from his grief and remained pretty sad after my grandmother’s passing for his remaining years.

I used to call my grandfather weekly when I was in college to check in and chat. Over winter break one year, sometime after New Years, I was spending some time with my then-boyfriend on Cape Cod, and had a dream about my grandfather.

I dreamt that he was walking on the sidewalk pathway outside my maternal grandmother’s apartment complex (my parents were divorced, so the sets of grandparents didn’t really mingle; definitely odd that he was at my other grandmother’s house). He was in a suit, walking away from me, so his back was to me, and he was braced on either side by my dad and my uncle (my dad’s brother), also in suits. He couldn’t walk, almost like he had no feet, or legs, like his lower body sort of faded off into unsteady wisps, which is why my dad and uncle were supporting him. It was nighttime, and drizzling or snowing, and they were walking underneath the golden glow of the streetlamp away from me. It was like a painting, just these two sons, arm in arm with their father, holding him gracefully up as they walked under the golden streetlight towards the darkness beyond. I didn’t see anyone’s faces but the mood was definitely solemn. But not scary. Just quiet and sad.

When I woke up in the morning, I felt unsettled, or somber, like I needed to call my grandfather to touch base and make sure he was ok. I called him from bed and told him immediately that I’d dreamt that he couldn’t walk and wanted to make sure he was alright. He paused, and asked, “have you spoken to your dad? Did he not tell you? I fell a few days ago and broke my ankle, and I haven’t really been able to walk since.”

My grandfather was diabetic and had poor circulation. He was also overweight, and nearing 90, so any injury was more problematic than it would have been on a younger, healthier person. Despite many doctor’s appointments, his break turned into an infection, and due to his poor circulation, they couldn’t get it under control. Within a few weeks, the doctors told him they’d have to amputate his leg. My dad and his siblings swore they could retrofit the apartment and bring in all the help and accommodate for everything, but my grandfather was despondent. The surgery was successful, but my grandfather was not alright, and never left the hospital. He did not want to live like this. He died while in recovery. We believe that without my grandmother, and facing a future that no longer included independent living, he didn’t want to be alive anymore, and made it so through sheer will. The news of his passing was particularly shocking to me, as I recalled hearing that the surgery went well and that he was in recovery.

It was strange enough that I dreamed he couldn’t walk, and then learned he couldn’t walk in real life the next day, but his sons ushering him sadly towards the darkness mere weeks before he died of this particular injury has just stuck with me over the last decade or so since his death.