Those last weeks were so hard for all of us, especially the kids. They adored Paul. He was the youngest, their baby. "Paul Goofy" they called him, and he'd smile, "I'm not Paul Goofy. I'm Paul Gregory."
He was always in pain. He was so weak that he could barely walk. He was in and out of the hospital those last few weeks. It was so hard for him there and he had been through so much already-radiation, needles, endless IVs, five spinal taps in two weeks. Whenever we'd get near the hospital, he'd say, "I'm not going upstairs, am I, Mama?" "I'm sorry, honey," I would always tell him, "I can't promise you anything."
On February 8, 1976, we wrapped Paul up in a blanket and drove to the hospital for the last time. When we got to there, Paul cried, "I don't want to go upstairs, Mamma. I don't want to go upstairs." I held Paul while he got his pain medication, and then I said, "Don't worry, honey, we're going home now."
Paul died that night at home, surrounded by family who loved him.
