Dear Grampa,
It’s been 6 years now since you left this world. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I remember every excruciating detail of those last few months as you slowly deteriorated due to Alzheimer's. I told myself that if I truly thought of you as my hero and role model that I needed to be there as much as I could through those dark times.
The truth is, it scarred me. It scarred and traumatized me more than anyone knows. It’s a trauma I don’t speak of much because I don’t know who’d listen or care.
That first time in the room with you, where you got stuck in a loop of getting dressed and undressed for work was a cold slap of reality, I think I didn’t want to believe. I made my choice though to be there until the end.
Some times felt almost normal. We’d talk about the 1950s, jazz music, old friends, and you remembered my name. That might have been the biggest blessing and curse. You remembered my name almost to the end. It also meant that when you begged me to help you escape the nursing facility, it was my name you used. All I could do was wait it out until the thought floated from your mind like dandelion spores.
Then there were the bad times. Me sitting at your bedside while Nina begged me to help you. There was nothing I could do but apologize and say I didn’t know what to do. Few things are more heartbreaking than your grandparents who had been married over 70 years begging their grandson to do anything to help the situation and knowing there was not a damn thing I could do but be there.
I would hold it together for the sake of my mother and siblings until I was by myself. That was when my alcohol issues took center stage. I would drink until I couldn’t feel and then hate myself for wanting to scrub the final memories of my supposed hero from my mind.
In those final weeks, I had many times that I was torn between hoping you passed so you wouldn’t suffer anymore and wanting desperately for one more memory of you, even a traumatizing one. Then the end came.
They say even when you’re unresponsive, a person can still hear you, which is why it is good to speak to someone even if they show no signs. I remember that last night, that last time I saw you. I left work to say my goodbyes. Sitting at your bedside as you lay with your eyes closed, looking peaceful, I knew it was the last time I’d ever see you.
It hurt. It was a new kind of hurt, though. When my dear old friend Matt died 18 months earlier, I got the news but never saw him. This time with you I was staring you in the face, knowing that it was my choice how long I stayed, what I said, and how I reacted to what was coming.
I’ll keep my final words to you between us because I know you heard them. I could have stayed longer as my coworkers told me to just go home after I saw you but I needed to not be alone, at least not right away. I knew alone time was drinking time and I needed to feel for a little longer.
I stood in that doorway looking at you trying to imprint everything permanently into my memory. It worked. It’s still there. Even now I get that familiar pang of emotion knowing that my next move was turning and walking away leaving you forever only a memory. I’m sorry.
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| The photo I took after leaving the nursing facility that final night. |
It’s been 6 years now. So what have I learned?
I learned that you cast a big shadow. It feels even bigger when it’s been taken away. I learned a lot from your life and death, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve done anything with what I’ve learned.
I learned what real love was from you and Nina being married for over 70 years. I learned how important real love was by how she slowly faded away once you were gone. Me, I am more afraid to love and be loved so I have chosen to bury myself in chasing my dreams since you’ve been gone.
I learned about what a real man is and what having a real male role model means, especially when one is taken away. I’ve had so many ‘second fathers’ in my life, because my ‘first father’ didn’t want to be a father at all. I tried to soak up all of your wisdom while I could. Now I find myself wishing I could ask you a question or share a problem with you, usually a few times a week.
I have sunk deep into personal development over the last few years, desperately trying to find the road that I was paving while you were still here. Through this journey, I have learned one sad truth. I don’t feel like I am honoring your legacy the way I wish I could.
There was a great question on a self-help podcast a few months ago that hit me like a ton of bricks. A man asked how best to honor his brother, who had recently passed away. The podcast host said the best way to honor someone you’ve lost is by living the life they would have wanted for you. I don’t feel I am doing that.
There are times that I think about all of the advice, words of wisdom, and lessons I got from you. Then I think to myself, ‘Did I even pay attention?’ I swear I did.
I said to you that if I grew up to be half the man that you were, I would consider my life to be a success. I don’t consider myself a success. This is where I’d ask you for advice on what to do next, but all I can do is comb my memories of you to see if I can find a stone I’ve left unturned.
I could sit here and tell you I feel like I’ve failed you in terms of the lofty praise and expectations you would heap on me. Maybe it was just what good grandparents do. I don’t know.
There are two things I will leave you with, Grampa. One you said to me and one I’ve learned through the years, and all of the losses of loved ones.
One is the words you scratched down on the piece of paper I still have to this day. It’s never too late to be what you might have been. Yes, I know that George Eliot said that quote, but I had never heard of it until you gave me those words. Until I am dead and gone, I will continue the search for whatever I might be. Not giving up my dreams is the best way I can honor you. Well, except for one other way.
It is said that a person dies twice. They die once when they take their last breath, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. As long as I am alive, you will be as well.
I will celebrate. I will mourn. I will share stories. I will pursue my dreams in your honor. It’s all I can do to stay warm in the chill of your giant shadow. It is why I am writing a letter you will never receive.
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| How I picture my grandparents. |
In closing Grampa, I love you and miss you everyday. Please take Nina out for a fun night dancing and singing at the best jazz club heaven has. Save a big table for Nana, Uncle Eric, Auntie Chris, Brenda, and Marylou. Matt probably won’t go to a jazz club, but you can always send him a box of donuts.
Until we meet again, thank you for everything.
Love,
Chris
