Last Tuesday my grandfather passed away, after a short (or long?) battle with lung cancer. I barely even remember him smoking, he stopped when I was 9 or 10 (a good 20 years ago), but I guess by then the damage was already done because it still caught up with him.
He was that person who was the class clown; always joking and playing, sometimes to the point where we'd say 'Hush Papa you play to much'. So when I went to see him in July when he first went to the hospital, laid up in a drug induced coma with tubes coming out of every opening, it was a hard sight to see. I'm thankful that I got to see him then, and talk to him quite a bit after that, for over the next few months he was in and out until they finally placed him on life support. My grandmother made the hard decision to discontinue it, feeling like we all did, that she was tired of seeing him suffer.
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