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12/01
I never knew my grandfathers. The first, on my mother's side, died long before I had the chance to meet him. I don't even remember when it happened, whether it was before I was born or before I was old enough to know, but it doesn't matter. The end result is the same.
The other, my father's father, died this week. He was there most of my life, from the days when we lived right next door to him and my grandmother to now, when we live no more than a five minute drive away and me and my brothers spend about as much time at their house as we do at our own.
I say their house because, even though he's gone, that house will still be his for a long time yet, just as much as it's still my grandmother's. My grandpa worked all week, ever since I can remember, and would always come home at around five, go into his den, sit in his easy-chair and watch TV. The kids my gran babysits may play in that den all day, but once grandpa came home the place was his. At the visitation on Thursday, with family and friends milling all over the house, it was so strange to see people sitting in that chair.
I think I knew his habits, or at least his habits when we were in the house; the chair, his den, the way he'd get grouchy whenever someone lost the remote, the way he'd golf on the weekends, come home, and sit down to watch golf on TV.
But I didn't know him.
I thought I knew as much about him as I needed to. He rarely talked to me and, foolishly, I rarely tried to talk to him. I didn't care about his past; I don't care much about anyone's past. The present always seems so much more important. I live in the present, and in a time when I sometimes have to struggle to understand who I am, I can't be bothered to spend energy on figuring out everybody else.
So I didn't get to know him.
When I got the news that he was in the hospital, I didn't feel anything. There was no turning of my stomach, no hint of the gut instinct I've come to rely upon. I thought that meant one of two things. Either he was going to be okay, or it wouldn't affect me much if he didn't.
I'm well aware of how horrible that sounds, and I'm not going to try to defend it. I think I loved him. You have to love your family. Even when you hate them you must still love them in some way. But I didn't hate him. He was there, really more of a figurehead than a real person, for my entire life. My gran has given me more love than I probably deserve, but my grandpa was usually just there. No more and no less.
So when I heard he was in a coma my thoughts went immediately to my grandma. I worried about how she would take it. I think somehow I knew he wasn't going to live. My instincts don't often fail me, and if I feel that something's going to happen, very likely it will. And still I felt nothing. I merely worried over gran, and the rest of the family; my aunts and uncles who knew him as a father, and cousins who knew him a lot better than I did.
The final news was only confirmation of what I knew was coming.
I managed through the wake and the visitation at the house with no real problems. It was weird seeing him. That was the first time I'd seen a dead body before, something I guess no one ever forgets. But the emotion wasn't there. I didn't watch when they got out the videotape from their fiftieth anniversary. I didn't want to see everyone else crying.
At the funeral I was more than a little nervous. I'd never been to one before, didn't really know what to expect. We sat in the wrong place and my uncle eventually came and took us to an alcove off to the side, where the family would sit. We ended up in the last row, between two of my cousins. I was thankful. I didn't think I was going to cry for my grandfather, but I knew the tears of everyone else might be enough to bring them out in me, and I hate crying, especially in public.
The part of the funeral I know I'll remember is the eulogy. Most of the family was starting to cry, and by then I could feel the tears wanting to form, and the hot tightness in my throat that comes from holding them back. Then my uncle Joe began to speak.
I listened to him talk about my grandfather. He talked about how grandpa was born in New York. He talked about how grandpa lied about his age so he could go into service in WWII. He talked about how grandpa was stationed in Bermuda, and how it was there that he met the love of his life. He talked about grandpa's aneurism, and how he had to relearn almost everything, how he worked his way from not being able to read to never being without a novel nearby. He talked about the way grandpa's eyes would sometimes light up when he talked about grandma. He talked about how proud grandpa was of his Native American heritage, about what a hard working man he was, and how much he loved his family.
I learned more about my grandfather in those minutes than I had in my entire life. It was then I realized that I didn't know him at all. It was then I realized I'd never get the chance to know him.
It was then I stopped fighting the tears.
Most of this night I've spent listening to music. I pulled out my CD cases, turned on my CD player, and played all the saddest songs I own. The kind of music that's made ever more beautiful by its pain. For me it was a poignant memorial, an affirmation of the hurt, and a reminder to not let it happen again. I hope I can learn. I hope I won't have to lose another before I get to know them.
I firmly believe that we don't cry for those that are gone, we mourn our loss. We grieve for the things we'll never get to do with them, the times we'll have to go on without them, and the things we'll never get to say to them. Even as I write this, the tears are still coming. They're tears of regret, for not getting to know my only grandfather when I had the chance. The pain is there now. But it's a good pain. A person can't take the first steps to healing if they're not even aware of the wound. I will heal, and I will do my best to help my grandmother do the same.
In the end that's all that's left to do.
Talk to Spooky!