cacophony

But every time I try, I get tangled up in my head and nothing makes it onto the page.

I have been rocked by my grandfather’s death, more so than I ever expected to be. I feel adrift, untethered — all my grandparents are gone now. My son will have no memories of any of his great-grandparents. That seems so — final. Empty. Heartbreaking.

The services for Gramps were lovely. Nate slept through both of the actual services, which was a relief. And it was helpful for me, because I was able to just hold my son while I cried — and cry I did. Throughout both services, more than I expected to cry. The entire weekend was completely overwhelming. Of Gramps’ 18 grandchildren, 16 of us were there, with our spouses and our children. We had a party — a celebration of his life — after the graveside service at my parents’ house. From our family, there were 34 adults there and 19 children (17 of whom were below the age of 10). And some close family friends were there as well. Overwhelming, actually, may be an understatement. I saw family that I haven’t seen in a dozen years. My husband met cousins of mine that he’s never met before. I so wish that it didn’t take a death to pull us all together again.

Rather than anything cohesive, I have snippets of things that made an impression on me.

. . . .

I saw cousin Clay for the first time in more than ten years. He is touchier than I remember — reaching out, touching, petting, holding on. Very affectionate. Susan is everything I remember her to be, and it is good to see them finally married. They seemed very happy, very content. I don’t remember seeing that in Clay before.

Cousin Earl lost his beard. But the huge, bushy mustache leaves him still looking like Grizzly Adams, a comparison first made long ago by cousin Tracy. sww asked “Do you think if they hadn’t named him Earl, he’d have still turned out that way?” Yes. We do.

There were three 3-year-old’s among Nancy’s grandkids — Alex, Katie, Noble. They are all huge; so much bigger than Nate. Definitely got the genes from my “giant strain” of cousins. It was so much fun to watch them all playing together.

Nate got very upset at actually saying goodbye to Gramps — though it was his choice to do so. I really struggled with how to deal with this for him — and ended up dong the same that I try to do with everything that touches his life — explain it as well as I can, and try to help him find the best way to “deal” with things. I think I made the right choice in the way I handled it, but it was very hard. He sobbed all the way out of the chapel and to the car — “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye” — over and over again. I am so thankful that he fell asleep in the car on the way to the gravesite.

My baby sister got very, very drunk and she kept walking around, going up to her cousins and saying “I’m the youngest grandchild, and I’m getting married in February. How old do YOU feel?”

At one point, all of Gramps’ children and their spouses headed out to the garage for a “meeting.” I went out there to get a drink and was chided for interrupting. I said “Oh, so this is where all the grownups are!” because, in all truth, that’s how I think of them still — the same way I did when I was five. They are the grownups, and we are the kids. They all laughed at me. “Well, Carrie, what do you think you are, if not a grownup?” I laughed. “Well, I could have said old folks, but I didn’t think y’all would like that.” Susan said when she tried to sneak out there for a smoke, she said “Oh, I found all the parents!” Yeah, she’s probably more tactful than I am.

Cousin Serin asked me if I told Nate to do that — because at Granny’s funeral, I was the grandchild who started bawling uncontrollably, and apparently I set off all the rest of the grandkids. She said “We were all holding it together until you fell apart — but once you did, it was over for us all.” I was in second grade, and I don’t remember that at all. I don’t remember anything about Granny’s service except watching Daddy cry.

We talked about all the things we all remember — riding the golf carts all over the neighborhood, the fact that just the mention of Gramps’ name allowed us WAY too much freedom on the hotel grounds, playing on the golf course, the piñatas at Christmas, summers in Granny’s pool, haunted houses that we put on whenever we had the chance. It is astounding to have such a huge number of shared (collective?) memories with so many other people. There were always cousins around when I was growing up — at least until Granny died. So many of us sharing our childhoods. It rips me up that, as a family, we have neglected this for our kids — that Nate will grow up without that chaotic bliss of a large, close-knit family. None of Gramps’ children will ever have 18 grandchildren; none of our kids will ever have that many first cousins. But they all have a boatload of second cousins — 26 great-grandchildren, currently. But instead of being common for us all to get together, for our kids to be able to build that vast storehouse of shared memories — it’s a rarity. It makes me sad.

I looked around that night, and I saw so much life. Loud, raucous, chaotic, vibrant, intense life. Babies and old folks and everything in between. This is what Gramps left behind; this is what he gave birth to. All of us — his family. All of our energy and our joy and our drive and our ups and downs and . . . everything. And we are a pretty fucking amazing legacy.

. . . .

It seems that Gramps spent the last year of his life telling people he loved them, after a lifetime of not saying it. He started saying “I love you.” To his kids, to his grandkids, who’d never heard it. He’d never said it. But we knew.

We knew.

I knew it was coming soon. But I wasn’t expecting it just quite so soon.

Gramps died a week ago today.

I have a lot (an awful, awful lot) to say about this past week. But I’m not quite up to writing (at least not well) about it yet.

I love you, Gramps. I miss you. I’m so glad you’re not suffering anymore.

I remember the day after Granny died, I went in the early afternoon with Mama and Daddy to her house. It seems, now, like there were so many people there. I walked in, down the couple of steps that led to the living room, and looked to my right. She had been there, in a hosptial bed right there in her own home, for so long — to a child’s mind, it seemed like that bed had been there for years, but I know it couldn’t really have been that long. And now she wasn’t there, and my vision went blurry. I turned away — look somewhere else, anywhere else, to avoid the void where Granny should have been. Turning my head to my left, I looked down the long hallway toward her bedroom. Gramps was walking toward me, talking to someone else as he walked down the hall. But as soon as he saw me, wildly looking for something to anchor my eyes, anchor my heart — he held out his arms to me. I went flying into them, nearly tripping over the step up into the hallway, grief bubbling up through my eyes and down my face in hot, salty tears. He pulled me to him, held on to me tight enough that, finally, I didn’t feel like I was going to go flying apart, and he said “We’re sure going to miss her, aren’t we?”

I don’t remember another time, either before or since, that he has just held me, offered comfort or affection so freely. I don’t remember what I said in response or how long it was before Daddy gently pried me from his arms. I just remember that for the first time since Daddy had told me “Granny died last night,” I felt solid. Looking back, as an adult, I recognize what a shattering loss he had just suffered, but he took the time — no, made the effort — to reach out to a desperate little girl. I am so thankful that I have that memory.

I remember when Gramps got married again, but not in any real sense, not in any detail. I was still quite young — maybe ten years old? I have a vague recollection of sky-high ceilings and impossible amounts of glass in the church, of his wife standing at the altar in a pale blue dress, of all my cousins in little bunches and clusters making noise. The only real memory I have of the whole affair is that I put a toothpick into the meaty part of my palm during the reception, like a freakishly large splinter, and the arresting pain that it caused. I used wads of monogrammed napkins to stem the bleeding. The marriage is almost less memorable than the wedding, save the animosity that bled through the entire family.

A home I’d once considered just as much my own as mine was now a place no one liked for me to be. If I went to visit, his wife shadowed me around (where before I’d had free reign) and told me not to touch things; when I told Mama and Daddy where I’d been, I got tight, thinned lips and distant eyes. Only my reception from Gramps never changed — I got the same distracted greeting and general nonrecognition that I was there that he had always given me. There was much comfort in its familiarity. Eventually I gave up visiting, as did most of the family, and by the time I was a teen I didn’t even remember to call him on his birthday, or Father’s Day, or any other day. I think there may have been times I went years without seeing him. He was no more to me, in action, than an acquaintance — though I mourned for Granny nearly daily.

I remember when his wife told him she wanted a divorce. I was married and mother to a seven-week-old infant by then; he was more than 80 years old and his wife of more than 15 years said “I want you to leave.” He was legally blind, nearly deaf, in poor health, and it was shortly before Christmas. Where was he to go? I was stunned by the news. I remember I was sitting in the living room of my parents’ home, hooked up to my breastpump, when my fahter came in the door leading his father, who was shuffling slowly along, holding tightly to Daddy’s arm. I have never seen a person — in gait, posture, air — look so defeated as my grandfather. Daddy was angry with me, but for once in my life that didn’t matter to me because I was too focused on Gramps, and on how sad it made me to watch him move into the room. During that short trip to Mississippi, I probably spoke with Gramps more than I had in the previous ten years combined, and it made me ashamed that I’d not made more effort before.

He complimented me on my son many times, always exactly the same words. “He’s such a good looking boy.” And one night, he shuffled over to us and reached down and took Nate’s hand — reaching out in a way I’d never seen from him in my lifetime, save that one moment in the hallway in his home — and asked Nate if he liked stories. “When you get older,” he said, “I’ll tell you The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. My sons used to love that story.” Daddy, listening, said “We just liked the voices you used when you told it, Dad.” Gramps just smiled, then let go of Nate’s hand and shuffled back to his chair. But then, at that moment, I knew in a way I’d never known before that he loved us, loved me and loved my son. The vision of him standing there, holding my son’s tiny hand, is the second most vivid memory I have of my grandfather.

I remember when he got married for the third time. After a long, ugly, bitter divorce was finalized, he was determined to start his new marriage quickly. At 86, an age where most people considered him far too old to be setting out in a new marriage, he stood at the altar once again and made vows to a woman he loved. I don’t think I remember hearing him say a single word the entire day other than his vows. Watching him and his wife at the reception, I knew that this marriage was a good thing. I was struck by how sweet and how caring his wife was, how interested she was in getting to know and be part of his family, how easily she seemed as if she’d been part of our lives, and his, for a long, long time. I knew this was good, and it made me happy.

Gramps turns 88 years old today. He will not, barring something completely”miraculous” (for lack of a better term), celebrate his 89th birthday. He is currently in hospice care (though at home), suffering from advanced stage Parkinson’s disease, and the estimates from the doctor on “how long” range from 3 weeks to 6 months. He has good days and bad days. There is something of a war raging between his five children about how the end days of his life should play out, and there is a fringe of sadness in my mind every time I think about him.

But I cannot be truly sad; I can’t be heartbroken. He is suffering, and when he returns to the Earth that suffering will be over. His life has been an incredible adventure. He followed many of his dreams and had an amazing array of experiences in his lifetime, things that I could only dream of doing. He spent much of his time pursuing his great loves (like fishing, and gambling, and owning hotels) and there are not too many of us that can say that is what we spent our lives doing — chasing our passions. In his lifetime, he owned a bowling alley, a Vegas casino, a resort, multiple hotels, and things I am sure I am forgetting. He had private planes and boats and beach houses available to take him to the water, put him in his nirvana, at a moment’s notice. He knew the love of an incredibly strong, passionate, amazing woman — with whom he had five children. He has the love of a lovely, caring, warm and delightful woman to carry him through the last years of his life. He did the things he wanted to do in life, and has a rich and fascinating tapestry of a lifetime to look back on now. He has five children, 18 grandchildren, and 24 great-grandchildren that have shared his life and will now “carry on” his legacy.

So, today, I will celebrate the man he is and the life he’s had. I will mourn, a little bit, that I didn’t bother to pursue a closer relationship with him. I will remember those very few, but cherished, moments of stunning connection that I have had with him. He is the last of my living grandparents, and I am lucky to have him as a grandfather.

Happy birthday, Gramps. I love you.

I guess it’s an indication that I’m growing up, or have grown up, but when the phone rings at 11:30 pm, it gives me that tingling feeling on the back of my neck, makes my shoulders scrunch up and my mouth go dry, and my stomach feels like it does when I’m on a really quick elevator. As it happens, I was on the phone last night when the other line beeped at 11:30.

“Oh shit. Hold on a sec; that’s my sister little; this is BAD.”

“We’re at the ER. He’s got a fever of 102° and he can’t breathe for shit.”

Funny that; now I can’t either.

. . .

Nine days ago a surgeon split my father’s sternum in half and did all kinds of nasty things to his heart. It’s supposed to make him better. He had his aortic valve replaced, had a bypass done, and had a procedure done that is supposed to fix his afib problem — which involved the surgeon essentially making lots of gashes in his heart tissue. He was recovering well and got to go home exactly a week after the surgery, on Monday.

But last night he ended up in the ER with a fever and short of breath. Now he has been readmitted to the hospital with pneumonia.

This is not supposed to happen to my Daddy. And it’s completely selfish of me to feel this way; I’m angry. Angry that my rock, the larger-than-life solid presence that has been there, unflinchingly, all through my life, is flinching. It makes me crazy with grief, and fear, but also with anger, and that makes me feel ashamed.

. . .

I was probably eight. We were at the beach house in Pensacola. The sky was the most vibrant blue, like a watercolor painting, stringy pitiful white clouds moving chasing each other around on the horizon. The wind was the kind that puts some stiffness in your back, makes you set your shoulders. I didn’t want to go in the water because it looked angry, churning and swirling around like it was just waiting to have a chance to destroy something. There were a few brave surfer souls out on the water, and I watched them fall, get knocked down, get dragged under, over and over again and I didn’t want to go in the water.

Daddy said “Yes. You’re going,” and he picked me up and carried me out into it, while I kicked and both tried to get away and clung to him at the same time. When he got far enough out that he was hip deep, he peeled my arms from around his shoulders and dropped me into the water, holding my hand so tightly that I was afraid I was going to start hearing bones pop. I don’t remember the exact words he said. He told me to feel the water, feel what it could do to me if I didn’t respect it. He told me that I shouldn’t be afraid of the water, but that I should remember that it could be very scary and I should respect how powerful it is.

I couldn’t keep my feet. I was knocked around like a rag doll, my only anchor Daddy’s arm, and I clung to it. He kept my face out of the water, but didn’t help me stand — he let me feel the water pounding me, tossing me, pulling me every which way. And he stood, immobile, feet planted and acting quite literally like my rock. He wanted me to learn about the water that day. And, in an abstract kind of way, I did. But I learned something much more important that day, something I already knew but that became sharply focused in my mind and has never gotten fuzzy again, even after all these years. I learned that Daddy is my rock, my safe place. Daddy is all powerful, protective, strong and wise.

This is one of the most powerful memories I have.

Over the two decades between then and now, I have learned some new things. I have learned that Daddy is as fragile as the rest of us, and that sometimes he can’t be that strong and I need to be the strong one. I have learned that he won’t always be able to keep me safe and that sometimes he is wrong. Even knowing those things already, though, seeing him lying in that hospital bed enrages me. I want to throw a temper tantrum, kick my feet and scream and cry and close my eyes and plug my ears — maybe, maybe, if I don’t acknowledge it it won’t be true. Maybe if I throw a big enough fit then Daddy will fix it, make it better, put it back the way it’s supposed to be.

But it doesn’t work like that. It is what it is, and we can’t make it any different. So in the end, I sit by his bed and I hold his hand and tell him I love him, and we move back toward normality one teeny tiny step at a time, and just try to have faith that we’ll get there.