(Early 2001) -- While we are deep in the process of adoption, my grandpa, Cappie, is in hospice care. He’s a stubborn, dear sweet old man who is teaching me about dying. He calls Roger and me “222” because of a sequence in our phone number.
I’ve told Cappie about our quest to become parents, and I’ve I asked that after he dies, if he finds a soul that is looking for a good family to join, to send that soul our way.
The day before he dies, he is in and out of coherence, and he talks about the baby girl in the next bed named "222." She is real, he insists.
I can believe him to be either delusional or prescient. I choose the latter.
(Turns out that at the time, the woman who will soon make us parents is about 6 months pregnant with our daughter, though we do not know of each other. I am convinced that even though our daughter never met Cappie, she had one very important conversation with him.)