My grandfather died a week ago.
All things considered, it was very peaceful. All things considered, I am incredibly lucky. For those reasons, and because it's how I process death, I haven't cried very much since it happened. I start grieving long before my loved one actually passes and by the time it happens, I'm well into a numb/dry spell. I spend days and weeks telling everyone in ear shot my little memories, our special 'nobody else cares' traditions so I'm talked out and often cried out when the day itself comes.
I have cried a little but for other reasons, other hurts. Much less involved with my grandfather and more involved with old wounds and tough memories, the kinds of things that come up when you spend time with close relatives. Since he died, I've spent a lot of time thinking about and remembering little things. saying goodbye quietly and gently.
Two weeks ago, I went to see him.
I sat at on PopPop's bed and picked up his hand. Wish #1 fulfilled: touching him one more time. He was incredibly frail but didn't mind that I sat close. He woke for a few minutes and greeted my brother and I. Wish #2: he knew us and was glad to see us.
Alex brought beautiful little Lorelei, my niece. Wish #3: PopPop met all of his great-grandchildren. The contrast between the two people was striking, bringing the reason for our trip into sharp clarity. A life beginning with joyful noise and one ending with respectful quiet. His voice was a whisper, Lorelei's is usually a delighted squeal.
Though the trip was brief and for me, very sad, it was also incredibly fulfilling. Time was precious so we didn't waste it. Sure, we had downtime; hours of talk and quiet with my parents, my brother, sister in law, aunt and uncle but that time was time well spent. These people knew him and respected him, loved him just as much as I did. To spend a few hours, better, a few days bonding with them was a balm to my heart and a reassurance that wonderful new things can come from the end of wonderful old things.
Throughout the trip, and even through profound grief, I had an overwhelming sense of gratitude. To my parents for arranging the trip, to my grandfather, aunt and uncle for facilitating it, to my brother and his family for accompanying me on the journey. To the universe for setting the situation up so perfectly, at exactly the right moment. It might not have shown outwardly, but even as my heart broke, it was comforted by the kindness of near-strangers, by the touch of someone I deeply loved and the chance to be near him one last time. Few times in life is a person fortunate enough to get the sort of closure I did. Rarely is anyone lucky enough to actually get there in time or to say what they're really feeling. I carried that gratitude home with me and it's propelled me through the last few weeks, will probably drive my life for a long time after.
There were many wonderful, comforting moments during the trip. I was able to say things to him that I needed him to know. He told me what I knew but needed to hear. The climax came just before we left that first day. That was when I was able to find exactly the right words.
Thank you for saving my life.
I'd hoped for a kind response, an acknowledgement. Instead, I got his best, last gift.
You're welcome. It was a life worth saving.
Showing posts with label grandfather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandfather. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Holding His Hand
When I was five, I flew all by myself to Cincinnati to be with my grandparents for Spring Break. It was one of the most magical weeks of my childhood. That time, one on one with my grandparents was a wonderful fanciful treat. I stayed in a room decorated just for me, we visited the zoo, I had my hair done at my grandmother's salon, they showered me with gifts and showed me off to friends. Every night, during cocktail hour, they let me use their foyer as a kind of stage where I performed selections from Annie and Fiddler on the Roof with great enthusiasm. If they were anything but enthralled, I never knew. I must have come back spoiled rotten, my poor parents.
When I was six, I wanted to play the flute. More than anything. My cousins, older beautiful, sophisticated fourth and fifth graders that they were, both played an instrument and I wanted to be just like them. My grandparents paid for the rental. My hands were tiny; too small to make the first crucial reach of the flute's keys. I wouldn't figure out breath support for another four years and got light headed every time I touched the thing. I quit.
When I was seven, I wanted to play the piano. My parents had purchased an antique full upright and I'd been tinkering on it, plunking out commercial jingles and Rogers and Hammerstein melodies by ear. I wanted lessons. My grandparents offered to pay the month or two they figured I would stick to it. I took private lessons until I was seventeen. They ended up paying for five years of private voice lessons too.
When I was 11, I got braces. I have a mouth like a bowling alley. Tiny, narrow jaw; great big horse teeth. I had two oral surgeries, countless extractions but after years of pain and inconvenience, I had a beautiful smile, financed by my grandparents.
When I was 19, I became a single mother. My first husband had walked out seven months earlier. My daughter and I had nothing. My grandparents were part of the network of people making sure she had a good start. Thanks to them, she had tiny pink sleepers, a lovely cozy cradle, a carseat, a swing.
When I was 31, Cowboy had been hospitalized and out of work a month. My cupboards were bare. I went to sleep one night knowing I had no means of feeding my children the next week. My grandfather's 5:00AM phone call woke me. He was worried for us and was sending grocery money.
I said goodbye to my grandmother the next spring. Actually, I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. I was too blocked to write and by the time I had the courage, she'd lost the ability to understand. I spoke at her wake and in a cracking voice, talked for all of her grandchildren about her propensity for fulfilling wishes and rewarding hard work. I still think of her and thank her in my dreams.
When I was 35, I introduced my children and husband to my grandfather. I looked forward to that moment for months and fussed about it almost as long. This man, opinionated and sometimes dysfunctional as he is, has been so many things to me and I owe him so much. I couldn't wait for my family to meet him and him to meet them. I wanted him to see what bright, intelligent children they are and to know that he influenced the way I raise them. To hear him say I was doing well was like the blessing of heaven.
When I was 36, I needed a surgery to save my life. Giving me the money as a gift would have been inappropriate. I needed to demonstrate I had the strength to walk the path I was setting. It was a very big investment; one I needed to make in myself. My grandfather offered to pay half only if I came up with the other half on my own. I wanted it and I found a way. My grandfather helped me save my life.
They are moving my grandfather to Hospice this week. At 96 the man who used to walk or swim at least two miles a day can no longer walk across a room. I wish I could carry him. The man who attended weekly concerts and treasured lively conversation has been devastated at the loss of his hearing; even the best hearing aid a poor substitute. I wish he could hear through my ears. His eyesight is fading, I wish he could see through mine. These are the quality of life issues, there are others, much more serious that are shortening his time. If I could give him more time in comfort, I would. Since I can't, I can only offer compassion and hope I get there in time to say goodbye.
I owe him so much that 'thank you' seems lame. There's so much I want to say that every thing I start seems insipid. He and Grandma talked about holding my hand when I was a baby. I guess, I'll start by holding his hand and hope the words come. If I can't tell him how I feel, at least I can say goodbye the same way I said hello.
When I was six, I wanted to play the flute. More than anything. My cousins, older beautiful, sophisticated fourth and fifth graders that they were, both played an instrument and I wanted to be just like them. My grandparents paid for the rental. My hands were tiny; too small to make the first crucial reach of the flute's keys. I wouldn't figure out breath support for another four years and got light headed every time I touched the thing. I quit.
When I was seven, I wanted to play the piano. My parents had purchased an antique full upright and I'd been tinkering on it, plunking out commercial jingles and Rogers and Hammerstein melodies by ear. I wanted lessons. My grandparents offered to pay the month or two they figured I would stick to it. I took private lessons until I was seventeen. They ended up paying for five years of private voice lessons too.
When I was 11, I got braces. I have a mouth like a bowling alley. Tiny, narrow jaw; great big horse teeth. I had two oral surgeries, countless extractions but after years of pain and inconvenience, I had a beautiful smile, financed by my grandparents.
When I was 19, I became a single mother. My first husband had walked out seven months earlier. My daughter and I had nothing. My grandparents were part of the network of people making sure she had a good start. Thanks to them, she had tiny pink sleepers, a lovely cozy cradle, a carseat, a swing.
When I was 31, Cowboy had been hospitalized and out of work a month. My cupboards were bare. I went to sleep one night knowing I had no means of feeding my children the next week. My grandfather's 5:00AM phone call woke me. He was worried for us and was sending grocery money.
I said goodbye to my grandmother the next spring. Actually, I never got the opportunity to say goodbye. I was too blocked to write and by the time I had the courage, she'd lost the ability to understand. I spoke at her wake and in a cracking voice, talked for all of her grandchildren about her propensity for fulfilling wishes and rewarding hard work. I still think of her and thank her in my dreams.
When I was 35, I introduced my children and husband to my grandfather. I looked forward to that moment for months and fussed about it almost as long. This man, opinionated and sometimes dysfunctional as he is, has been so many things to me and I owe him so much. I couldn't wait for my family to meet him and him to meet them. I wanted him to see what bright, intelligent children they are and to know that he influenced the way I raise them. To hear him say I was doing well was like the blessing of heaven.
When I was 36, I needed a surgery to save my life. Giving me the money as a gift would have been inappropriate. I needed to demonstrate I had the strength to walk the path I was setting. It was a very big investment; one I needed to make in myself. My grandfather offered to pay half only if I came up with the other half on my own. I wanted it and I found a way. My grandfather helped me save my life.
They are moving my grandfather to Hospice this week. At 96 the man who used to walk or swim at least two miles a day can no longer walk across a room. I wish I could carry him. The man who attended weekly concerts and treasured lively conversation has been devastated at the loss of his hearing; even the best hearing aid a poor substitute. I wish he could hear through my ears. His eyesight is fading, I wish he could see through mine. These are the quality of life issues, there are others, much more serious that are shortening his time. If I could give him more time in comfort, I would. Since I can't, I can only offer compassion and hope I get there in time to say goodbye.
I owe him so much that 'thank you' seems lame. There's so much I want to say that every thing I start seems insipid. He and Grandma talked about holding my hand when I was a baby. I guess, I'll start by holding his hand and hope the words come. If I can't tell him how I feel, at least I can say goodbye the same way I said hello.
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