Every once and a while, you find yourself at a loss for words.
As a writer, I don’t often find myself in such a situation, but occasionally, events unfold that can render the most loquacious person mute — even me.
We’re losing my grandfather.
He doesn’t know he’s my grandpa, not anymore. He doesn’t remember his wife, the four daughters they raised, 11 grandchildren and (as of now) nine great-grandchildren. He doesn’t recall that he has a twin sister, or that he was a career military man who retired from the Air Force.
He doesn’t know that 30 years ago he taught me to play croquet when I was a little girl with my cousins, and that he was caught cheating on video by kicking the ball through the wickets. He doesn’t remember playing football with me in the backyard of our home in Ohio and he won’t recall that he used to love watching Star Trek and John Wayne films.
He forgets that he rarely smiled in photos, preferring instead to make a goofy face. He would probably have laughed to (re)learn he’d once been photographed grilling burgers while wearing an apron that read “keep your hands off my buns.”
He doesn’t know that his signature one-eyebrow lift was passed on to my oldest son, who copies his mannerisms perfectly despite only being around him a few times before the Alzheimer’s began to claim his memories.
He doesn’t remember any of these things, but I do. And it hurts.
After a bought with an acute illness, and in keeping in line with his living will, he was discharged from the ICU to go home — and hospice was brought in.
Whether by car, bus or plane, everyone came down to say their goodbyes — even if no one called it that.
I was amazed at my cousins’ ability to casually converse with him while he was still in the hospital. They sat at his bedside, chatting as if it were any other day, adjusting his blankets and just totally rolling with his occasional one-word responses. I struggled for words.
What I ended up saying sounded lame and hollow, even to me.
“Bet you can’t wait to get out of this hospital room,” was all I managed before pretending to watch TV with him. I was ashamed of myself.
I wanted to say a great deal. I wanted to say “I’m so sorry this happened to you and you deserved so much better” and “I bet all these people just staring at you has got to be driving you crazy.” But I didn’t, I just awkwardly avoided eye contact and mumbled platitudes.
Back at Grandma’s house, I tried to find my niche. With a large portion of the family in town, everyone was looking to do their share. There were the cookers, the cleaners, the control-freaks, the care-givers. I gave in to my “inner-Libra” and set out to just try and make everyone happy.
Need a hug? I’m your girl. Want to complain about so-and-so? I’m your sounding board. Need a laugh? I’ve got a great joke involving a cucumber …
When it was time for my husband and me to head home, I finally mustered up my courage to face the frail, old man in the bedroom. It seemed cruel to me to introduce myself, just to say goodbye. So I didn’t. I didn’t care whether he knew who I was or not. I just told him that I loved him, kissed his forehead and bit my tongue before I finished with the usual “see you soon” because I knew in my heart that it was the last time.
I hugged my boys a little tighter as I put them to bed that night and I wondered how losing our “patriarch” would affect the family — especially as we are already spread out around much of the country. If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that family is supremely important and must always be put first and never taken for granted. All those memories and history — it’s important that it’s not lost.
As Grandpa’s favorite Vulcan would say: Remember.
