I look down at him. Is this really the same man? The man who used to be the tickle monster, who used to chase me around the house while I squealed in mock fear. Childhood games seem so far away now. That was ten years ago. Seeing his desperate face looking up from the hospital bed, I just can't accept that these two men are one and the same.

I had seen him since the days of the tickle monster. Of course I had, I know there are some families which remain distant. Not us. Seeing my grandparents was a monthly activity. But he just wasn't very good with kids. Anyone can please an eight year old, just chase them or hang them upside down or something. But as you get older, it gets harder. Once it stopped being possible to entertain me by trying to scare me, he faded. He became a background character. Rarely spoke to me. All we had was a meek exchange of jokes. Invariably they were crap but they were all we had, and being a nine year old, I found most of his hilarious, even though they never rose beyond the intellectual heights of why did the chicken cross the road.... He sometimes found mine funny too, but usually for the wrong reasons.

Of course, I grew older, and everything would have become a lot easier for him again. Would have. When I was thirteen he got cancer. Well, he probably had cancer before that. But I was thirteen why my dad told me "Granddad's gone to hospital". He was trying to keep all emotion out of his voice, but his attempt merely serving to make him sound more upset. I had given him a hug and tried to make him feel better, in the painfully inadequate way of thirteen year olds.

He had been iny-outy of the hospital for the next four years. Every time he came out again he hadn't been talkative. He had no idea how to interact with me anymore. So he did what he had been doing before. He told bad jokes. Only now, they weren't funny. I was older, and he was coughing half the time as he told them. I always laughed at the punch lines out of politeness. I would continue giving him jokes back, and he would usually cough and splutter his approval at the end. I have no idea if it was a genuine appreciation or a mirror of my own politeness, probably the latter.

He'd been in hospital consistently for the last year. It looked like he wasn't going to make it out. We had avoided visiting him in hospital before, but now it had apparently become necessary. The first time I visited him with my parents I felt nothing. Really, why should I? For the past five years he's been treating me like a distant nine year old, not like his now-adult-grandson. We've not felt a connection for half a decade, and the connection we had before was what? Why did the fucking chicken cross the road? There's only so much of a relationship that can create.

So why was I so choked up now? Visiting again, on my own. More out of a sense of duty because I was nearby than for any other reason. But here I was. On the verge of tears looking down at him while he tried to place me in his mind.

"It's me" I say, softly. The softness is caused more by the fact that if I use any other tone my voice will shatter into a sob than any other reason. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. I kneel at his side and try to think what to do. What can I do? I know almost nothing about the man. After an age I say "Why did the chicken cross the road?" I'm disgusted with myself. I've done what I've been complaining about him doing for the past five years. I should be able to do better than this "To lay it on the line" I finish, meekly. Even by the standards of the past six years, it's poor. He smiles. The effort is clearly gargantuan, but a weak smile spreads across his face. There it stays. His face forever a polite smile.