It struck him down so quickly. It was a blink-and-miss-it time. Surreal with myriad of images and senses awakened: white walls of nursing homes and putting together hospital beds. The smell of antibacterial cleaners and the low mumbling of a distant TV on the wall. A barren peach tree suddenly full of fruit for my mom to make cobblers for my grandfather.
~ ~ ~
I remember the last time I saw him healthy. My dad and I were dropping him and my paternal grandmother off at the airport (they were going to visit my aunt in Maine), waving goodbye to him. The trip was cut short due to my grandfather's health taking a dramatic dive. It took little time for the doctors to discern the cause.
We visited the hospital as he got chemotherapy, brought him our company and comfort when gifts would've been a poor move. After the hospital, he briefly rested at his home with my family and I visiting often. My mom helped him shave his head for the chemo. She jokingly called him the white Michael Jordan.
He was moved to a nursing home when it got nasty again. My parents, especially my dad, wanted him back at his own home (I later discovered that my grandfather's death was imminent, more so than I realized at the time. There was no doubt, as my mom told me, that cancer kicked him down hard and was making him stay down for good.) They began the arduous process of setting up a hospital bed and other needed equipment in his trailer home. My grandmother wanted him in the nursing home. It was an element of tension between the son and mother. We never got the chance to get him settled comfortably at his home.
My last memory of my grandfather was at the nursing home, hooked up to a breathing tube and his eyes shut. He was napping. I didn't want to disturb him. I told him goodbye and kissed his shaved head.
~ ~ ~
Then August 7th, 1997 arrived. It was mid-afternoon. My sister and I were playing with our stuffed animals, having them on adventures far beyond the capacity of their polyester-filled bodies. We were called into the living room. My mom was sitting on the couch, my dad nowhere to be seen. I asked her of his whereabouts and she said that he was out in the backyard. She began telling us the news, choking up at the reveal: "Papa died today". At that, she burst into tears.
My sister was stoic at the news, probably trying her damnest as an eight-year-old to understand the gravity of it all. As for my ten-year-old self... saying that I was sad is an understatement. I was f****ing inconsolable. I ran back to my room, with all the stuffed animals, and embraced my stuffed animal shark Chelsea.
~ ~ ~
There was a wake on the 12th, no casket or anything dramatic like that. He was cremated and his ashes spread somewhere in Texas. An old friend delivered the eulogy, a group of Army soldiers folded a flag and presented it to my uncle (the eldest son), and I sat next to my dad with Chelsea in a purse.
We began to homeschool again, though it wasn't the same. Everything changes when someone dies, especially the only family member that actually supported the idea. The tree that bore so many peaches later perished after my grandfather's death. For a long time, it sat in our backyard, doing nothing other than remind us of that time. After a few years, my dad chopped it down. My mom cried as he did, unable to watch it finally come down.
~ ~ ~
I never forget this day. I just can't. Every time August 7th passes by, I emotionally freeze up and remember. The tears, the peaches, the nursing home, the softness of Chelsea's dorsal fin against my face. The last time I saw my grandfather. His eyes shut. The foreshadowing of the sadness to come. The day reeks of sickness. Whenever people want to make plans with me and they end up on this day, I don't do it. It is bad luck.
To say his death had an impact on me is putting it lightly. My stories are fraught with families devastated by an important family member's death, main characters who had a beloved relative (usually a grandparent) stolen away by disease, and these events are the equivalent of 9.0-scale earthquakes.
For God's sakes, I even dedicated the novel project Invisible to him. I feel that this novel is so important to me, that it should be dedicated to someone just as equally important.
Nothing else needs to be said of today. Or of my grandfather. I have spent my words.
0 musing(s):
Post a Comment