A Wicked Inclination
"There is a wicked inclination in most people to suppose an old man decayed in his intellects. If a young or middle-aged man, when leaving a company, does not remember where he laid his hat, it is nothing; but if the same inattention is discovered in an old man, people will shrug up their shoulders, and say, 'His memory is going'."
- Dr. Samuel Johnson
I've never really lost anyone before. Not by way of death, I mean. Many people have walked out of my life, but none have been taken.
My grandparents had both been very sick over the last few years. In my youth, I remember my grandma's subtle yet protective demeanor and my grandpa's mischiveous grin whenever he told my younger brother some fantastic story. Perhaps about how cats had to sell their tails during the great depression, I remember that specifically.
As I grew and my appearance drastically shifted (long hair, tattoos, etc.) and so did my responsibilities (my sudden mutation into an unwed dad), suddenly I was bombarded from almost every corner of my clan to alter myself or revert back to some fresh-faced boy. "Cut your hair," or "You can't let your dad see your tattoos," not to mention the infinite disappointment slung my way by one specific member of my family upon finding out I was having a son.
Never so with my grandparents. I don't know why. Maybe in their eyes I was eternally going to be the five year old with blond hair and a Superman action figure in his hands. Or maybe they realized that it doesn't matter. Maybe it was their realization, as they climbed the ladder of age, that appearance and status and the perfect life are all fleeting. That the things you think are so phenominally important aren't going to be when you grow close to the end. As long as you have the people around you that you love.
Or maybe they thought I looked garishly charming with my long hair and tattoos.
My grandpa died on March 23rd. He had a heart attack around 1:30am and died around 5:30pm. I didn't take this in the fashion I expected. I became angry. I'm not sure why, but I did. Very angry. Not at him for leaving, or at the doctors for being unable to save him. But it seemed I was mad at everyone else in the world.
Two days was his viewing. Before that, we went to see my grandma in the nursing home. She has extreme ulzhiemers. We went to tell her that grandpa had died. When we got there she was sitting in her room alone, buckled into her wheelchair, her one eye was swollen shut from where she had fallen out of bed a few days prior. My mom asked her if she knew who everyone was. She paused, then said yes. Her voice was forced, and sounded like two stones scraping together. A far cry from her gentle voice that used to read my little brother and I golden books in the days of our childhood. My mom spoke with her for a little bit and then we left. My mom leaned on me for support as we left the nursing home.
She never told her. I think I'm ok with that.
The viewing was awful. But then again, I don't think it was supposed to be fun. Lots of people I don't know coming up to me to tell me how sorry they are and how proud grandpa was of me. Forgive me if I sound resentful. Mad at everyone, remember?
I didn't want to be there anymore, in fact I wanted to be anywhere else. The psuedo-comforting feel of a funeral home is something that I thankfully will never get used to. A house unlived in. A house that knows only sorrow and grief, no happy times ever shared within those walls.
Almost as a comedic respot, one of the visitors brought me a plate of cookies. Which I ate with brother in the back room.
I thought it was funny.
I guess all of this is to say that my grandpa is gone, I'm not glad that he is gone. However, I'm glad that his suffering is done. He doesn't have machines that live his life for him, beating his heart and pumping his blood. He doesn't have to live with the misery that his wife of 64 years doesn't remember who he is. As trite as it sounds, he is in a better place.
(This was written a few months back, since then my grandmother has joined my grandpa. One in the Force forever and always. Amen.)
- Dr. Samuel Johnson
I've never really lost anyone before. Not by way of death, I mean. Many people have walked out of my life, but none have been taken.
My grandparents had both been very sick over the last few years. In my youth, I remember my grandma's subtle yet protective demeanor and my grandpa's mischiveous grin whenever he told my younger brother some fantastic story. Perhaps about how cats had to sell their tails during the great depression, I remember that specifically.
As I grew and my appearance drastically shifted (long hair, tattoos, etc.) and so did my responsibilities (my sudden mutation into an unwed dad), suddenly I was bombarded from almost every corner of my clan to alter myself or revert back to some fresh-faced boy. "Cut your hair," or "You can't let your dad see your tattoos," not to mention the infinite disappointment slung my way by one specific member of my family upon finding out I was having a son.
Never so with my grandparents. I don't know why. Maybe in their eyes I was eternally going to be the five year old with blond hair and a Superman action figure in his hands. Or maybe they realized that it doesn't matter. Maybe it was their realization, as they climbed the ladder of age, that appearance and status and the perfect life are all fleeting. That the things you think are so phenominally important aren't going to be when you grow close to the end. As long as you have the people around you that you love.
Or maybe they thought I looked garishly charming with my long hair and tattoos.
My grandpa died on March 23rd. He had a heart attack around 1:30am and died around 5:30pm. I didn't take this in the fashion I expected. I became angry. I'm not sure why, but I did. Very angry. Not at him for leaving, or at the doctors for being unable to save him. But it seemed I was mad at everyone else in the world.
Two days was his viewing. Before that, we went to see my grandma in the nursing home. She has extreme ulzhiemers. We went to tell her that grandpa had died. When we got there she was sitting in her room alone, buckled into her wheelchair, her one eye was swollen shut from where she had fallen out of bed a few days prior. My mom asked her if she knew who everyone was. She paused, then said yes. Her voice was forced, and sounded like two stones scraping together. A far cry from her gentle voice that used to read my little brother and I golden books in the days of our childhood. My mom spoke with her for a little bit and then we left. My mom leaned on me for support as we left the nursing home.
She never told her. I think I'm ok with that.
The viewing was awful. But then again, I don't think it was supposed to be fun. Lots of people I don't know coming up to me to tell me how sorry they are and how proud grandpa was of me. Forgive me if I sound resentful. Mad at everyone, remember?
I didn't want to be there anymore, in fact I wanted to be anywhere else. The psuedo-comforting feel of a funeral home is something that I thankfully will never get used to. A house unlived in. A house that knows only sorrow and grief, no happy times ever shared within those walls.
Almost as a comedic respot, one of the visitors brought me a plate of cookies. Which I ate with brother in the back room.
I thought it was funny.
I guess all of this is to say that my grandpa is gone, I'm not glad that he is gone. However, I'm glad that his suffering is done. He doesn't have machines that live his life for him, beating his heart and pumping his blood. He doesn't have to live with the misery that his wife of 64 years doesn't remember who he is. As trite as it sounds, he is in a better place.
(This was written a few months back, since then my grandmother has joined my grandpa. One in the Force forever and always. Amen.)
posted by Ryan at 9:46 AM
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