Sunday night we gathered to let him know it was okay to let go. We talked and told stories and laughed -- things we do even in the darkest of times. I'm sure the hospice staff and others in hospice care and their families wondered what we had to be so joyful about. During that time my aunt Kathi said what a privilege it was to be able to help Grandpa the last few years. As my cousin and I sat with him Monday night before dinner we talked about what a perfect word that is, privilege, and how what we were doing with and for him these last several days was in fact a privilege. Then I kissed his head, stroked his hair, and told him we'd be back after dinner. And then he was gone.
Some of you knew my grandpa. Some of you weren't that lucky. He was a loving and generous goofball, a protector of his family, and someone who you could always count on. He also built me a Barbie couch out of 2x4s, let me do his hair but never let me win at checkers, let me tag along in his woodworking shop, and taught me how to install doorknobs. Once, after we did his hair in tiny pig tails all over, he killed a tiny snake in our dining room with a steak knife. He was a mighty hunter. Every night my mom and my aunts have been together in the kitchen cracking each other up and telling stories. We know how to be broken and yet whole because of Grandpa. He is one in a million.
I don't find death as devistating as some do. I've never been able to put together the words to explain why. My aunt called it his 'heavenly adventure', which I like the sound of, but for me it's more than that. Yes, I believe that Grandpa is better off where he is (better off than where I am, to be sure), and that I'll see him again, and those seeming platitudes aside, death is just another part of life. For me there is something as sacred about the end of life as there is about the beginning. We come together to surround, support, remember, love, laugh, eat, and yes, mourn. We put our lives on hold and say, "We remember. We appreciate. This matters. This life matters. The absence of this life matters. We who remain matter to each other." This is one of the few remaining truly sacred things we do. That probably sounds crazy to everyone but me, but I find it beautiful.
This is not to say that I'm not sad. I am. My sister and my cousins all have families who knew Grandpa. I just have stories. Grandpa won't be at my wedding, or at my graduation. I won't have photos of Grandpa with my kids. I won't get Christmas cards in Spanish. Or encouraging letters. I won't open the pantry door to find Grandpa's stash of Squirt, or find partial Bible verses and definitions written on post-it notes on the tile backsplash in the kitchen. There aren't going to be any new stories of someone entrapping him in a traffic accident and then him following them across LA to a creepy car repair place "for the adventure" of it. I'm sad, for sure. Sometimes terribly so. But I've also learned so much and been given an example of what a life faithfully lived and ended with dignity looks like. How can I be sad about that?
So to everyone who has helped me/us, whether with the tangibles or the intangibles, thank you. Thank you in advance to everyone who is going to have to hear stories of Grandpa in the weeks and months ahead. Thank you to those who are helping with the service tomorrow. Thank you to those who helped Grandpa in these last few years of his life when he wasn't as robust as he would have liked. But most of all, thank you to Grandpa for the generosity, love, lessons, laughter, and zaniness. We were paying attention.
