Grandpa’s Last Hurrah

Date: 11/21/2025

There’s a knock at the door. I open it to find a blonde woman in full-body Lycra — the sort that should come with a health warning. She has the face of someone I might know, or might have hallucinated. “Come on! We’re going to be late.” “Late for what?” “You’ll see.” She winks, and then she sprints away like she’s trying to break a personal best in unnecessary drama. I run after her, shouting that I’m not dressed for running and would’ve appreciated even half a second to locate something vaguely breathable. She ignores me, a woman possessed, while I huff along behind her, cursing everything that has ever been Lycra. The trees seem to dance. The sunlight feels dialled up a few notches too high, like someone fiddled with reality’s brightness settings without consulting me. She stops suddenly. Perfectly composed. “We’re here.” A block of flats stands before us. “And what exactly is —” But she’s gone. Gone. Not walked away. Not faded. Gone. Inside the lobby, three women in white uniforms turn towards me in unison. The same stiff starch. The same stillness. “You’re here for Michael,” they say. Michael? Who the fu— They wheel out my father-in-law. Oh. Grandpa Mike. Of course. Dream logic loves a plot twist without a plot. “He has requested to spend his last day outside the nursing home,” one says sweetly, as though discussing a picnic rather than mortality. Last day. Heavy as a headstone. “It’s your final day, Mike.” I say softly. “Where would you like to go?” “Supermarket.” He says bluntly. Not where I'd personally like to spend my last day on Earth, but different strokes and all that. I wheel him into the supermarket. Inside, Christmas shoppers swarm like panicked bees. Two feral shoppers are wrestling for puddings like they're battling for custody. “Madness,” I mutter. “And all for one lousy day.” Grandpa Mike isn’t speaking; he simply points. Left. Right. Left again. Every time I misread his sacred finger, he slams the brake hard enough to nearly eject us into a display of festive hams. In the freezer aisle, Mat’s arse appears from an ice-cream chest. He emerges, triumphantly with Oreo ice cream. “Thanks for looking after Dad,” he says, taking the chair. I nod, though the fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright. One shopper walks past in a white uniform identical to the nurses’ but I blink and it turns back into a puffer coat. The whole supermarket seems to tilt, or maybe that's just my eyes. As we near the checkouts, the reality goes soft around the edges. Beeps deepen into warehouse echoes. Shelves stretch into stacked parcels. Floors flatten into concrete. Suddenly I’m back in the depot. Well, some kind of half-depot-half-supermarket hybrid. “Can I never escape this bloody place?!” I shout. Robin appears, nervous. “We need you to cover a round.” “I’m on annual fucking leave.” “We’re desperate.” Dream gods love a pushover. Snap — I’m in my garish royal red uniform. Clinging to me like a decision I didn't make. From a chest of frozen peas, Charlotte’s head pops up like a frostbitten whack-a-mole. Her eyebrows are coated in ice crystals. “You’ll be working with Arter,” she chirps, then sinks back into the frozen depths as if hypothermia is a myth. Outside again. Winter sun low and thin. Grandpa Mike points to an off licence. He wants whiskey and cigarettes. He hasn’t smoked in decades. We sit on a hill, the wheelchair perched precariously. He chain-smokes, swigging whiskey between drags. The smell of alcohol mingles with the cold air, sharp enough to sting my eyes. “It’s been a good life,” he says at last. Glug, Glug, Glug. He drains the bottle. And then he says with the conviction of a man who has nothing left to lose; “Push me.” “What? No!” “Push me.” Sharper this time. “But you still have —” He releases the brake. A crisp, final clack. My hands tremble. I wheel him forwards. “I said… push.” So I push. He rockets downhill, screaming “Weeeeeee!” with childish delight. I laugh despite myself — until he crashes into a ditch. I race after him, breath snagging in my throat. But when I grab his shoulder, a voice yells: “What the fuck, Amanda!?” It’s not Grandpa Mike. It’s Ben — from work. Staring up at me like I’ve just shoved him off a moral cliff. “I—I thought you were my father-in-law,” I stammer, as if this explains anything. He limps towards a van that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I’m never working with you again.” He snaps. “Fair,” I whisper. Then I hear it. The soft, rhythmic squeak of wheels behind me. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. The hill tilts. The trees stiffen. The sky blanches to a pale, sterile white. My red uniform dissolves into thin cotton. My shoes are gone. My hands — folded neatly in my lap — are still. I’m not pushing. I’m being pushed. A nurse in a white uniform appears beside me — the same face from the tower block lobby, same neutral smile. “It’s time for your pudding now,” she says brightly. “Oreo — your favourite.” Oreo. Of course it is. They wheel me down a long corridor. Walls the colour of diluted milk. Doors with observation windows. A distant beeping that doesn’t belong to any supermarket on earth. They park me at a table. Plastic tray. Plastic spoon. Pudding waiting. In front of me sits a single pea — stray from someone’s dinner. A perfect green sphere at the very edge of the table. I stare at it. It wobbles. Teeters. Balances as if deciding whether to stay in this world or not. Then, gently — it falls. So small. So soft. But it lands like a truth I’ve been running from the whole time. Grandpa’s last hurrah wasn’t the ending. It was a wake up call.