Jim
I've been away from blogging for a while, and for good reason, I promise. But first I want to share a story with you:
Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her father had passed away and she couldn’t understand why he was no longer around. Her grandfather, Jim, was a tall, kind man, who loved the little girl very much and she loved him in return. Her favorite book was Are You My Mother? by Dr. Seuss and she begged her grandfather to read it every time he came to visit. She made him read it to her so often that he began to hide it from her so he wouldn’t have to read it again. She always found it though, and he never refused her if she asked nicely. Her grandfather was a good sport and they played Pretty Pretty Princess together too. He went to the store, bought milk, and returned home, only to find that the reason everyone was smiling at him was that he had forgotten to take off one of the sparkly plastic earrings. He was a "man's man", who loved beer, golf, baseball and football. He laughed at the earring though and told the story to his friends. Every summer the little girl and her sister would spend a week with their grandparents. The swam in the pool, ate ice cream and hot dogs, sat in the sun talking about where the sun goes after it sets...
As you probably have guessed, that man was my grandfather and I was once that little girl. My grandfather was a tough man, stubborn and strong. He was a Korean War veteran and a tile-setter by trade. He had poor knees and a bad back from hard labor. He liked doing things for himself regardless of his inabilities (hence why he kept falling). He was unafraid to speak his mind or tell you the truth. He had a kind heart though, not one for overt affection but made sure you knew he was proud of you and loved you. The regular phone calls on Thursday nights always consisted of ninety-five percent my grandmother gossiping and five percent my grandfather. He never spoke for long but he always knew you had that big presentation on Tuesday and asked how your dance classes were.
My grandfather, James, passed away early morning on the eighth of March, at the age of eighty-four. He was residing in a rehabilitation center at the time of his death, preparing to return home actually. He was hospitalized back in November for a chest cold, and contracted pneumonia when he was there. His stay was lengthened when he fell on his way to the restroom and was put on bed-rest for so long that his strength and muscle control deteriorated. He was moved to a rehabilitation center until just after Christmas, when he was transferred to a different one. The second rehab center was terrible though, the staff was less competent at taking care of him. They rarely bothered to help him dress, didn’t actually attempt to help him improve his coordination or strength, and no one knew he had fallen in his room yet again for ages. The staff was doing bed-checks that night and when my grandfather didn’t respond, they checked again. Unresponsive, they shocked him once, twice...five times. By that point, my Uncle Randy and grandmother arrived. Grandpa was only lasting about twenty minutes between shocks and was in a comatose state. My uncle asked my mom, helpless here in Massachusetts, what they should do. And she told him to let their father go.
I spent a long time staring at the casket Sunday evening at the wake. I hadn’t cried at all during the afternoon viewing, or even when my mom told me what had happened. It wasn’t until the very end of the second viewing that I found myself starting to cry and I felt my Uncle Randy slip his arm around my shoulders. I wanted to curl up in his arms and cry my heart out, like I’ve done too many times before. I sat there stiffly, holding back my tears and didn’t respond when my cousin, six year-old Ryann, asked me why I was sad. Uncle Randy told me to say goodnight while I could, to not leave any words unspoken. There was suddenly so much I wanted to say, but couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
Children never cease to amaze me sometimes. When I couldn’t speak, Ryann did. We had knelt before the casket and she said, “Dear Grandpa, I hope you’re not sick anymore. I hope you are in a better place and you feel better. I miss you lots. I love you”. It broke my heart, but I didn’t cry. I wrapped my arms tightly around her and squeezed. There couldn’t have been a better way to say it all than the way this little girl did.
At the funeral the next morning, my sister began to cry and was barely able to control the volume of her sobs. My cousin from Texas rushed in at the last minute, having sped from the airport as fast as she could. She made it just in time for the priest to issue his blessings. It couldn't have been more perfect even if we'd planned it that way. I'm glad Dawn got her chance to say goodbye. My grandmother, who has been very calm and collected throughout this entire week, fainted the next evening after dinner; I think the reality of it all finally caught up to her.
Everyone tells you how sorry they are for your loss. Naturally, you thank them for asking. Then they all ask, “How are you doing?” The answer they expect is “Good”, the answer no one wants to hear is the truth. The truth is this: You’re tired but can’t sleep. Your stomach growls but you don’t feel like eating. You toss and turn until you're so exhausted you pass out. You move slowly in the morning, stiff and worn.
The feelings are all too familiar to me, unfortunately. I've been to so many funerals I've lost count. I have designated wake and funeral outfits. Some people don't know what to say, but I somehow always do; I've practically made it an artform. Yet, you never quite get used to it, no matter how many times you go to these things. The idea of someone being gone is never old news; it's always a slightly different experience. You learn things about yourself, that you can handle much more than you ever expected. You learn that you love certain people more than others, and that's okay - it's all okay eventually. You go through the motions and hope you're still standing when the storm clears.
Then, after it's all over, just when you think it's all been reconciled, that you've accepted it all, someone points out to you what you're missing, and it hits you all over again. It shocks you, punches you in the stomach, and you feel it down deep in your very core. When my family was getting ready to return home the following Wednesday, my uncle hugged me goodbye and began to cry. This man, ever kind, loving and strong, who has been such a father figure to me, held me in his arms while he cried and I also clung to him tightly as I cried with him.
My grandfather was a beautiful man, a wonderful person, who loved many and was loved by many. My life is a fairly complicated one, but I know that I was extremely fortunate to have someone so incredible and such a stable influence in my life. I am grateful for every moment I was blessed to spend with this amazing man and I will miss him every day.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her father had passed away and she couldn’t understand why he was no longer around. Her grandfather, Jim, was a tall, kind man, who loved the little girl very much and she loved him in return. Her favorite book was Are You My Mother? by Dr. Seuss and she begged her grandfather to read it every time he came to visit. She made him read it to her so often that he began to hide it from her so he wouldn’t have to read it again. She always found it though, and he never refused her if she asked nicely. Her grandfather was a good sport and they played Pretty Pretty Princess together too. He went to the store, bought milk, and returned home, only to find that the reason everyone was smiling at him was that he had forgotten to take off one of the sparkly plastic earrings. He was a "man's man", who loved beer, golf, baseball and football. He laughed at the earring though and told the story to his friends. Every summer the little girl and her sister would spend a week with their grandparents. The swam in the pool, ate ice cream and hot dogs, sat in the sun talking about where the sun goes after it sets...
As you probably have guessed, that man was my grandfather and I was once that little girl. My grandfather was a tough man, stubborn and strong. He was a Korean War veteran and a tile-setter by trade. He had poor knees and a bad back from hard labor. He liked doing things for himself regardless of his inabilities (hence why he kept falling). He was unafraid to speak his mind or tell you the truth. He had a kind heart though, not one for overt affection but made sure you knew he was proud of you and loved you. The regular phone calls on Thursday nights always consisted of ninety-five percent my grandmother gossiping and five percent my grandfather. He never spoke for long but he always knew you had that big presentation on Tuesday and asked how your dance classes were.
My grandfather, James, passed away early morning on the eighth of March, at the age of eighty-four. He was residing in a rehabilitation center at the time of his death, preparing to return home actually. He was hospitalized back in November for a chest cold, and contracted pneumonia when he was there. His stay was lengthened when he fell on his way to the restroom and was put on bed-rest for so long that his strength and muscle control deteriorated. He was moved to a rehabilitation center until just after Christmas, when he was transferred to a different one. The second rehab center was terrible though, the staff was less competent at taking care of him. They rarely bothered to help him dress, didn’t actually attempt to help him improve his coordination or strength, and no one knew he had fallen in his room yet again for ages. The staff was doing bed-checks that night and when my grandfather didn’t respond, they checked again. Unresponsive, they shocked him once, twice...five times. By that point, my Uncle Randy and grandmother arrived. Grandpa was only lasting about twenty minutes between shocks and was in a comatose state. My uncle asked my mom, helpless here in Massachusetts, what they should do. And she told him to let their father go.
I spent a long time staring at the casket Sunday evening at the wake. I hadn’t cried at all during the afternoon viewing, or even when my mom told me what had happened. It wasn’t until the very end of the second viewing that I found myself starting to cry and I felt my Uncle Randy slip his arm around my shoulders. I wanted to curl up in his arms and cry my heart out, like I’ve done too many times before. I sat there stiffly, holding back my tears and didn’t respond when my cousin, six year-old Ryann, asked me why I was sad. Uncle Randy told me to say goodnight while I could, to not leave any words unspoken. There was suddenly so much I wanted to say, but couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
Children never cease to amaze me sometimes. When I couldn’t speak, Ryann did. We had knelt before the casket and she said, “Dear Grandpa, I hope you’re not sick anymore. I hope you are in a better place and you feel better. I miss you lots. I love you”. It broke my heart, but I didn’t cry. I wrapped my arms tightly around her and squeezed. There couldn’t have been a better way to say it all than the way this little girl did.
At the funeral the next morning, my sister began to cry and was barely able to control the volume of her sobs. My cousin from Texas rushed in at the last minute, having sped from the airport as fast as she could. She made it just in time for the priest to issue his blessings. It couldn't have been more perfect even if we'd planned it that way. I'm glad Dawn got her chance to say goodbye. My grandmother, who has been very calm and collected throughout this entire week, fainted the next evening after dinner; I think the reality of it all finally caught up to her.
Everyone tells you how sorry they are for your loss. Naturally, you thank them for asking. Then they all ask, “How are you doing?” The answer they expect is “Good”, the answer no one wants to hear is the truth. The truth is this: You’re tired but can’t sleep. Your stomach growls but you don’t feel like eating. You toss and turn until you're so exhausted you pass out. You move slowly in the morning, stiff and worn.
The feelings are all too familiar to me, unfortunately. I've been to so many funerals I've lost count. I have designated wake and funeral outfits. Some people don't know what to say, but I somehow always do; I've practically made it an artform. Yet, you never quite get used to it, no matter how many times you go to these things. The idea of someone being gone is never old news; it's always a slightly different experience. You learn things about yourself, that you can handle much more than you ever expected. You learn that you love certain people more than others, and that's okay - it's all okay eventually. You go through the motions and hope you're still standing when the storm clears.
Then, after it's all over, just when you think it's all been reconciled, that you've accepted it all, someone points out to you what you're missing, and it hits you all over again. It shocks you, punches you in the stomach, and you feel it down deep in your very core. When my family was getting ready to return home the following Wednesday, my uncle hugged me goodbye and began to cry. This man, ever kind, loving and strong, who has been such a father figure to me, held me in his arms while he cried and I also clung to him tightly as I cried with him.
My grandfather was a beautiful man, a wonderful person, who loved many and was loved by many. My life is a fairly complicated one, but I know that I was extremely fortunate to have someone so incredible and such a stable influence in my life. I am grateful for every moment I was blessed to spend with this amazing man and I will miss him every day.
Comments
Post a Comment