This is heavy, sentimental blog. Spoilered.
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
For some reason, I was reminded of my late grandpa earlier today. I don't really think about him, or anyone that I know that's died, because I have a huge existential problem with death. I don't know if it's a subconscious effort to ignore it because I have such a problem confronting it, or what. I just don't think about it a lot. I'm one of those people that's eerily unphased by death, or at least appears to be. And I'm not just in denial or anything. I'm not making a stoic face to cover up massive amounts of grief. I don't really grieve. It just doesn't hit me that way.
But I was reminded of my grandpa today, and I realize after contemplation that I really miss him. I didn't have a father growing up, but my grandpa lived with us, and he was my male role model. He was Boston Irish Catholic, so not surprisingly he was an alcoholic and a chauvinist. The house consisted of him, me, my mom, my grandma, and my sister. So I was the only person he liked, and we had an awesome relationship. I was the only person in the house he was comfortable with. We would spend all day together in the years before I started going to school, and after I started going to school, I would spend all night with him. He was the one who helped me with my homework, picked me up from school, taught me how to throw a ball, showed me his old navy tattoos, etc. He was my male parent.
We used to watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night. Every night from when I learned to read, to when he moved from the couch to a hospital bed that we rented from the VA. It just became a part of my life. 7:00 was Jeopardy, 7:30 was Wheel of Fortune, every night. Dinner was either before or after, all the time. The evening schedule revolved around that. We had our own television that my grandpa bought so that there wouldn't be any fights over the schedule. The house revolved around it, but nobody but my grandpa and I participated, because he was an asshole chauvinist.
We kept score for Wheel of Fortune on note cards that we would tack into the wall above the back of the couch. The entire wall behind the couch was always full of note cards, as high up as my grandpa (and then me as I quickly grew taller than him, he was a little guy) could reach. When I would sleep over at a friend's house or whatever, or when my grandpa wasn't able to watch for whatever reason, the other person would watch and keep score, and the absent one would have to kick ass the next few days to catch up. It was kind of spiteful "this is what you get for missing" thing. I really wish I had somehow kept them.
My grandpa died from throat and mouth cancer at the same time. Though he would never admit it, it was probably due to smoking a pack of cigarettes and drinking nothing but 50/50 vodka/sprite all day. I had to watch his health deteriorate. He went from a vibrant, upbeat, old-spice wearing man, to a gaunt, weightless, broken ghost in the span of a year. They put a tracheotomy in because the doctors accidentally screwed up his larynx somehow and he couldn't breathe properly. He also lost most of his voice. To this day I really don't remember how his voice sounds, but he has his voice when I dream about him. After the trache he became more distant and withdrawn, especially toward the women in the house but even toward me. We gradually stopped watching Wheel every night as his health went downhill. Finally it got to the point where he was in a lot of pain because of the cancer and the chemo they had him on. We got a hospital bed from the VA and moved it into his bedroom. He refused to be confined to the bed at first, only sleeping in it and laying in it when he was too tired or in too much pain to do something else. That gradually progressed to being in it most of the time, and then all of the time.
A few months before he passed away, he lost the ability to speak. I'm not sure if he just didn't want to or he actually lost the ability. Either way, he was pretty much comatose. He could barely react or move himself. I didn't make any effort to talk with him during this period, and a long time before that from what I can remember. I was about 11 or 12 at the time. I would walk by his bedroom and see him laying there, looking up at the ceiling, and just walk past it. The door was always open, but I never went in. I didn't go in for a long time, and then one day he died. My mom warned me a few days before and said something like, "I don't think your grandpa has a lot of time left, you should say goodbye." But I never did. I don't know why. It wasn't a big deal for me at the time. I was a teenager and an adolescent, and it just wasn't something I wanted to deal with. So I didn't. I walked by his room over and over again, and then one he died in his bed, my mom called an ambulance, and they took him out on a stretcher.
We had a service and everything, and I don't remember if I cried or not. If I had to guess, I would say that I did. But I might not have. And up until very recently, I haven't been affected by it. But for whatever reason, it's really starting to bother me now. I regret not saying goodbye, I regret not being there with him while he deteriorated and slipped away, and I regret not making more of the relationship that we had, which was really the only significant male relationship I would have as a child.
I miss my grandpa, a lot.
For some reason, I was reminded of my late grandpa earlier today. I don't really think about him, or anyone that I know that's died, because I have a huge existential problem with death. I don't know if it's a subconscious effort to ignore it because I have such a problem confronting it, or what. I just don't think about it a lot. I'm one of those people that's eerily unphased by death, or at least appears to be. And I'm not just in denial or anything. I'm not making a stoic face to cover up massive amounts of grief. I don't really grieve. It just doesn't hit me that way.
But I was reminded of my grandpa today, and I realize after contemplation that I really miss him. I didn't have a father growing up, but my grandpa lived with us, and he was my male role model. He was Boston Irish Catholic, so not surprisingly he was an alcoholic and a chauvinist. The house consisted of him, me, my mom, my grandma, and my sister. So I was the only person he liked, and we had an awesome relationship. I was the only person in the house he was comfortable with. We would spend all day together in the years before I started going to school, and after I started going to school, I would spend all night with him. He was the one who helped me with my homework, picked me up from school, taught me how to throw a ball, showed me his old navy tattoos, etc. He was my male parent.
We used to watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night. Every night from when I learned to read, to when he moved from the couch to a hospital bed that we rented from the VA. It just became a part of my life. 7:00 was Jeopardy, 7:30 was Wheel of Fortune, every night. Dinner was either before or after, all the time. The evening schedule revolved around that. We had our own television that my grandpa bought so that there wouldn't be any fights over the schedule. The house revolved around it, but nobody but my grandpa and I participated, because he was an asshole chauvinist.
We kept score for Wheel of Fortune on note cards that we would tack into the wall above the back of the couch. The entire wall behind the couch was always full of note cards, as high up as my grandpa (and then me as I quickly grew taller than him, he was a little guy) could reach. When I would sleep over at a friend's house or whatever, or when my grandpa wasn't able to watch for whatever reason, the other person would watch and keep score, and the absent one would have to kick ass the next few days to catch up. It was kind of spiteful "this is what you get for missing" thing. I really wish I had somehow kept them.
My grandpa died from throat and mouth cancer at the same time. Though he would never admit it, it was probably due to smoking a pack of cigarettes and drinking nothing but 50/50 vodka/sprite all day. I had to watch his health deteriorate. He went from a vibrant, upbeat, old-spice wearing man, to a gaunt, weightless, broken ghost in the span of a year. They put a tracheotomy in because the doctors accidentally screwed up his larynx somehow and he couldn't breathe properly. He also lost most of his voice. To this day I really don't remember how his voice sounds, but he has his voice when I dream about him. After the trache he became more distant and withdrawn, especially toward the women in the house but even toward me. We gradually stopped watching Wheel every night as his health went downhill. Finally it got to the point where he was in a lot of pain because of the cancer and the chemo they had him on. We got a hospital bed from the VA and moved it into his bedroom. He refused to be confined to the bed at first, only sleeping in it and laying in it when he was too tired or in too much pain to do something else. That gradually progressed to being in it most of the time, and then all of the time.
A few months before he passed away, he lost the ability to speak. I'm not sure if he just didn't want to or he actually lost the ability. Either way, he was pretty much comatose. He could barely react or move himself. I didn't make any effort to talk with him during this period, and a long time before that from what I can remember. I was about 11 or 12 at the time. I would walk by his bedroom and see him laying there, looking up at the ceiling, and just walk past it. The door was always open, but I never went in. I didn't go in for a long time, and then one day he died. My mom warned me a few days before and said something like, "I don't think your grandpa has a lot of time left, you should say goodbye." But I never did. I don't know why. It wasn't a big deal for me at the time. I was a teenager and an adolescent, and it just wasn't something I wanted to deal with. So I didn't. I walked by his room over and over again, and then one he died in his bed, my mom called an ambulance, and they took him out on a stretcher.
We had a service and everything, and I don't remember if I cried or not. If I had to guess, I would say that I did. But I might not have. And up until very recently, I haven't been affected by it. But for whatever reason, it's really starting to bother me now. I regret not saying goodbye, I regret not being there with him while he deteriorated and slipped away, and I regret not making more of the relationship that we had, which was really the only significant male relationship I would have as a child.
I miss my grandpa, a lot.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
niobe:
Thanks! 
brightredscream:
Beautiful blog