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[Jul. 16th, 2005|01:20 am] |
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Wow. Here I am, 1:20 in the morning, sitting in a dark room in my boxers and a t-shirt. All because I couldn't keep my emotions and memories in tact.
It started this evening. I was thumbing through the books on my bookshelf, and I pulled out a vintage issue of Playboy magazine. It was Grandpa's, sort of an unofficial inheritance from him when we cleaned his house. I thumbed through it, and briefly smiled at the thought of him and why he'd have such a magazine.
I sat down in my bed, said my prayers, and laid down and tried going to sleep. I thought of things, among them were my family, specifically my Ohio relatives. I thought of what it's like up there, all there is to see.
And, sadly, I thought of all that there is not to see, that being Grandpa. Grandpa, in a way, was not so much a person sometimes as he was an experience. He was a great man, a man who committed his sins and had his flaws, yes, but was a very good man, and who, I think, had changed by the time he passed away. He was a nifty old man, a man with a fashionable (Ayla would definitely describe it as hoopy) house, a knack for fashion, and just a great overall sense of class. Quite a shock, really, for a boy that grew up in Britain's lower class as the son of a prostitute. And he was just a great man overall, a man to talk with, a man to hang out with.
My thoughts drifted back to when he was still alive. I remember those times so clearly; the time at the beach house; the calls on the phone; the time, after being deemed ineligible for military service, he told me that I didn't have to serve like those before me, and that'd it be alright; but worst of all, the time he was in the home.
Grandpa had lost his wife, Esther, some time before his health started to go downhill. He eventually had to go to an old folks' home, which I really didn't like. This was Grandpa, for God's sake; this guy, even though he was old, could live on his own, could smoke, could party, could carouse. What the hell did he need to be in a home for, I thought. When I found out, Grandpa started to seem less and less young, and more and more headed for death. He started having problems controlling his bladder, which seemed to be so embarrassing in a way; it further tarnished the view of him in my eyes as that hip, happenin' old guy that we all knew as such. The news of health was all just news, really; I hadn't seen him, but was really anxious to, just to see my dear old Grandpa.
We flew up sometime early that year, about January-ish; the skies were gray, the trees were dead. It was all so morbid and dark. No life at all, almost. We stopped and saw him at the home. What a shock, I thought sarcastically, to find him at the smoking section; locked up in a home for bad health, and there he was smoking, like usual. We took him out for dinner that night. I knew he was probably lonely in the home, with his only family being the occasional visit from Auntie Pam or whoever, so I tried to tell him as much as possible as what was going on in my life. How school was, what ROTC was like, all of that. Yeah, Mom and Al noticed that, but I didn't care. I was his favorite, and he was mine. We finished eating, and when we left to get up, he lost bladder control. It was embarrassing. I experienced, first-hand, the downfall of one of the greatest people in my life. We drove him back, and we spent the evening in his house. Weird, I think, because there was barely a chance in Hell he'd ever really set foot in that house again.
The next day, Mom and Al went to breakfast with him at McDonald's. They asked him about a red dress Meghan wanted to have from the basement, and he replied, "I was planning on wearing it this Saturday." Bam. That was Grandpa, King of the One-Liners to the very end. And I really regret not getting my lazy ass up that morning, just to spend a little more time with him on the last day I'd ever have with him. I still kick myself over that. They left early from McDonald's, though, because he lost control again. Poor Grandpa, I think. How horrible it must be to be an old man, but face the physical problems of a 3-year-old.
We left around noontime or that afternoon. We stopped in at the home, just to see him again. He was eating, again, this time in the cafeteria. Eating, and also carousing with a fellow home-citizen, and poking fun at one of the more worse-off citizens of the home. That smartass. We wheeled him out of there, and we sat in the hall with him to say goodbye. I was the first to hug him and say goodbye. I did so, and I turned away. I walked on the line of green tiles in the hall, looking at the floor. My eyes were welling with tears, and I could barely hold back my sobs. The others said their goodbyes, and we walked out. I walked out quickly, and as soon as Mom was outside with me, I nearly threw my head on her shoulder and broke into tears. She was crying too, I think. It was awful; I was never going to see this man again, probably, and this is how it would end for us. I really wish I had taken my uniform with me; saluting him as a living man would've been the greatest, possibly most honorable thing to give him before he passed away. Oh, well. We got into our car, and I couldn't stop crying. I looked at his bedroom window as we passed, my eyes still full of tears, and I watched the building as we left its parking lot. I didn't want to leave him, not then, not ever. But I had to, and I hated it.
We stopped at a place down the road to pick up some lunch. I stayed in the car, my eyes and face still wet with tears. Meghan asked me, when she got back, if I was alright. I was to depressed to even remember what I answered. I ate, though, which is no shock. Gotta eat, I suppose. We flew back home that day, and life, somehow for me, resumed to a state of somewhat normalcy. But that night, I didn't wanna eat at Ryan's. I wanted to be with Grandpa again, to be with him to the end, to make sure that his "Little Buddy" didn't make him feel all alone in that place. I watched "The Hunt for Red October" that night, and tried to carry on.
He passed away maybe a month or two after that. I didn't watch him die of cancer like I did with Grandma, but it was just as bad. The week he passed away, we flew up for his wake and his funeral, and to horde his house so his neat-o stuff wasn't repossessed. It was weird, in a way, almost surreal; the gray, rainy, overcast skies over Ohio when we visited just shortly before were gone. The sun was shining, and it was warm and lively. He was dead; I would never talk to him again, never see his living face again, or anything like that, but there was life everywhere. There was a reason to be happy, I suppose. He was gone, but it was better for the Lord to take him quickly, I suppose, than for him to keep dragging around, suffering from cancer. We had the wake for him, which turned out to be nothing more than a family reunion. It was a good time, with so many family members meeting each other, looking at Grandpa's body (open-casket wake - ed.) and telling stories about him. Man, he was a neat guy. The funeral was not as bad as I thought. I learned of Grandpa a bit more. I wore my uniform to both, and saluted him at both places. I don't care if he only reached lance corporal, he still was one of the most respected men in my life. The after-funeral brunch was so lively and happy, you could barely tell someone had died. I guess that's just how it is with us, and with him; he's too good of a guy to sit around and mope about, rather we should laugh and tell stories of his wacky hijinx.
It ended beautifully that week, being able to say goodbye to his body. But I guess I never really said goodbye to him spiritually, in a sense. I always feel that between he and I (and also between my Grandma and I), we had some unfinished business. Stories to be told, lessons to be learned, things to be joked about. Well, with Grandpa, at least, I always have Uncle Ronnie to provide the jokes. Wow, thank God.
I guess in the end, I'll miss more than Grandpa's house, Grandpa's bar in his basement, Grandpa's nifty living room, Grandpa's nifty yard with that nifty hill I'd roll on. I'll just miss him. I'll always miss him terribly. I always miss being his "Little Buddy." |
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