The act of honoring someone's life means also having to acknowledge your relationship with that person: who you were to each other, what your relationship truly consisted of, and what made it unique. This can be difficult if acknowledging your relationship also means embracing the magnitude of it for the first time posthumously. This is true for me in the case of my grandfather.
My grandfather, "Papa", passed away September 1st at his home in Tacoma WA under the care of my grandmother. They would have celebrated their 62nd anniversary next month, but, as my grandmother put it "we didn't make it so it doesn't count". He outlived the expectations of the doctors who quoted us a timeline of "a couple of days to a couple of months" in June. It is still uncertain what he ultimately died of, though if "being tired" is a COD then perhaps that was it. He was waiting out three possible fatalities: the cancer that had spread from his bladder, kidney failure, or heart failure. At the time he died we hope (though we don't know) that he was ready to go. The state of his living life was so terrible that my mother says she can't imagine he even wanted to hang on much longer. He could not longer get out of bed, couldn't sit up, was on a steady supply of morphine which distorted his reality, had stopped eating, and stopped drinking water. He was smaller than a young boy. In a rare moment of conceding defeat my grandmother offered him beer and wine, to which he replied (perhaps for the first time ever) "I don't even want that".
I saw my grandfather two weeks before his death when my sister and I had the disturbing task of going to say goodbye. For real. Not with a "see you soon" attached at the end. We had to say the goodbye where you look someone in the eye and mutually acknowledge you will never see each other again because one of you will be dead. It was painful and actually very beautiful and touching, and it is something I will write about later. This time is meant for something a little different.
I have been deeply affected by my grandfather's passing. In his passing I have discovered that while all children love their grandfathers, not all of them have had relationships as intimate and unique as the one I shared with Papa. I have learned that he was the Patriarch of our family, not just because he was the head of it by generation but because of who he was as a person; we individually lost someone with whom we had a special relationship, but we collectively lost the silent captain of our ship. I have realized the love I have for my family and my want to be around them is wider, deeper, and more full than my 23 year old self gave me credit for. And I have been emotionally overturned to find that what he meant in my life was a more powerful symbol and force than I had ever known while he was alive.
To say goodbye to Papa has been to understand that in many ways he was the strongest male figure in my life. The most constant. The most forgiving. The most unwavering and unquestioning. I have been blessed by walking a weird road full of strong father figures and male role models. My own father, my step father, uncles, educators, mentors, patient friends. On this road Papa met me at my birth, and stayed with me until the end. As a child Nanny and Papa moved when we moved, always to be near my sister and I. In the wake of my parent's divorce they took over transportation and caregiving responsibilities. When I was 12 they became my co-guardians. I lived with them half the week and Papa walked me to and from school everyday. When I was in college and my hair was cotton candy pink or electric blue he would laugh each time, confused and delighted by the new color choice. When I graduated from college he may not have understood why I decided to go so far into debt for an education in art, but he was so proud that he flew across the country (despite his illness) to watch me, the first woman in my family, graduate. After my family was rocked by the early death of my cousin in 2005, he confided in me "One thing, Carlee, that I would like" he said "before I die, is to watch you get married." That desire may have left his memory the moment it left his mouth, but it has stuck with me all this time. And I did cry for the fact that I was never able to give that to him.
He never asked me to explain myself. He never needed to know why I was who I was; he just really loved that person. He never told me that I needed to win or to be the best because, he told me, I already was the best. He held me up in respect and admiration from infancy into young adulthood, while I was preoccupied with doubt and self loathing. He is a person with whom I am fortunate and gifted to say I have no issues. No issues that were resolved and none that went unresolved. This is a rarity even with those we share the deepest, most loving connections. The revelation of this truth has been a palpable and moving discovery. It has freed me and enriched me. It has informed my ability to strengthen the relationships I have and to honor in truth the one which we shared.
I cary many gifts from him with me today: the gift of his love, the gift of love for others, the gift of family, the gift of respect and community and the ability to enjoy small moments. How you can reflect on someone without sounding dweeby I may never know, so please excuse the wrote sentiments like "carrying gifts, blah blah blah".
For the journey I am on in my life this has happened at a fortuitous time. The last six months I have been building, defining and strengthening the relationship I have with myself. To understand the relationship between us and the love he had for me does a great deal in helping me continue to understand myself. I am grateful for his memory for many reasons, but today that is the one I am giving thanks for.
Thank you.
