Wednesday
Sep212011
My Grandfather, Impossibly
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
This is my grandfather:
I was riding home from my shoe sales job in a cab, wondering how in the hell my cab driver had managed to get the car so damned humid with his stale breath if people were opening and closing its doors all the time, when I got a call from my mother. Her voice was shaky, and I knew immediately that it was about my grandfather.
He's been fairing less and less well as dementia has taken a hold of him. It doesn't just steal your memories, it slowly steals your body's ability to function, too, and we knew that soon it would literally steal his heartbeat or his breath. Now it appears that it is doing just that.
"This feels sad," my mother said, "but it isn't really. He wants this. He told us a month ago that he was ready for it to be over," and then later in our conversation, a conversation that was only fifteen minutes ago, she said, "We want this to be a celebration of life. He's had a long life. He's had a productive and good life."
And he has. He was at different times a farmer, a furnace repair man, a grocery store owner, and an insurance salesman. He had what we called his shop in a building next to the house. It was a garage with stone walls and a hard-packed earth floor. I used to sneak in when no one was around and run my hands over his tools and the wooden workbench that crossed the length of the back wall. The wooden handles felt soft even under my young hands after so many years of use. Some of the tools had been handmade my his forefathers in Russia and had no English names to describe them.
He was a quiet man who was shy around me, but one afternoon, when he caught me hiding in the shadow by the door, I asked him to show me his things. He went from piece to piece telling me the names of them, picking each one up and putting it down with that small velvet sound only grey, old wood above a dank earth floor can make. That's a sound most of us will never hear now. I hold it in my head, though, and replay it for myself.
He ushered me out of the shop once we reached the last tool at the end of the table, and I promised myself that I would remember the careful crescent moons that were his dry nails at the ends of his fingers. I haven't forgotten those, either.
Right at this very moment, my mother and her brothers are gathering around my grandfather three hours north of here in the home where he lives now. My grandmother is living on another floor of that same home, succumbing to her own dementia. She might not understand this tonight. I kind of hope that she doesn't.
It's so strange to think that only ten months ago, they had their own apartment together, and that she was tying his shoes for him, which he had just stopped being able to do on his own.
My mother says that his hands and feet were suddenly very warm, and then his breathing changed, which are signs that a person is right at the very end, but it all seems so impossible.
The man whose archaic camera flashbulbs would pop and send shards of glass into the carpet, the man who would chuckle under his breath and hoist his pants with his thumbs after I hugged him, the man who left his pillows smelling like Old Spice where I would bury my face after their visit: this ends. Doesn't that seem impossible? It seems impossible.
While I fumbled with money to give the cab driver, I was telling my mother to give my grandfather one more kiss from me, and it seemed all wrong to be in a funky cab handling money while sending my last bit of love off to my dying grandfather while hearing the waver in my mother's voice and realizing that I was listening to a daughter losing her father.
I felt like the world had gone cubist, all sharp and conflicting angles, and I realized that it's in cases like this when I wish all things were not possible.
----------------------------
PS. He's not gone yet. He's going, but he's not gone. These things happen slowly sometimes. I'm just glad he's got my family with him.
I was riding home from my shoe sales job in a cab, wondering how in the hell my cab driver had managed to get the car so damned humid with his stale breath if people were opening and closing its doors all the time, when I got a call from my mother. Her voice was shaky, and I knew immediately that it was about my grandfather.
He's been fairing less and less well as dementia has taken a hold of him. It doesn't just steal your memories, it slowly steals your body's ability to function, too, and we knew that soon it would literally steal his heartbeat or his breath. Now it appears that it is doing just that.
"This feels sad," my mother said, "but it isn't really. He wants this. He told us a month ago that he was ready for it to be over," and then later in our conversation, a conversation that was only fifteen minutes ago, she said, "We want this to be a celebration of life. He's had a long life. He's had a productive and good life."
And he has. He was at different times a farmer, a furnace repair man, a grocery store owner, and an insurance salesman. He had what we called his shop in a building next to the house. It was a garage with stone walls and a hard-packed earth floor. I used to sneak in when no one was around and run my hands over his tools and the wooden workbench that crossed the length of the back wall. The wooden handles felt soft even under my young hands after so many years of use. Some of the tools had been handmade my his forefathers in Russia and had no English names to describe them.
He was a quiet man who was shy around me, but one afternoon, when he caught me hiding in the shadow by the door, I asked him to show me his things. He went from piece to piece telling me the names of them, picking each one up and putting it down with that small velvet sound only grey, old wood above a dank earth floor can make. That's a sound most of us will never hear now. I hold it in my head, though, and replay it for myself.
He ushered me out of the shop once we reached the last tool at the end of the table, and I promised myself that I would remember the careful crescent moons that were his dry nails at the ends of his fingers. I haven't forgotten those, either.
Right at this very moment, my mother and her brothers are gathering around my grandfather three hours north of here in the home where he lives now. My grandmother is living on another floor of that same home, succumbing to her own dementia. She might not understand this tonight. I kind of hope that she doesn't.
It's so strange to think that only ten months ago, they had their own apartment together, and that she was tying his shoes for him, which he had just stopped being able to do on his own.
My mother says that his hands and feet were suddenly very warm, and then his breathing changed, which are signs that a person is right at the very end, but it all seems so impossible.
The man whose archaic camera flashbulbs would pop and send shards of glass into the carpet, the man who would chuckle under his breath and hoist his pants with his thumbs after I hugged him, the man who left his pillows smelling like Old Spice where I would bury my face after their visit: this ends. Doesn't that seem impossible? It seems impossible.
While I fumbled with money to give the cab driver, I was telling my mother to give my grandfather one more kiss from me, and it seemed all wrong to be in a funky cab handling money while sending my last bit of love off to my dying grandfather while hearing the waver in my mother's voice and realizing that I was listening to a daughter losing her father.
I felt like the world had gone cubist, all sharp and conflicting angles, and I realized that it's in cases like this when I wish all things were not possible.
----------------------------
PS. He's not gone yet. He's going, but he's not gone. These things happen slowly sometimes. I'm just glad he's got my family with him.
categorized in family & pets, personal history and tagged in childhood, death, family, grandparents, past
family & pets, personal history and tagged in childhood, death, family, grandparents, past 
Reader Comments (65)
No words, really. I am just glad you have the memories you do & that he goes in peace.
I am sending biggest hug to you tonight. I lost my grandparents this same way, and it is heartbreaking. May your family find peace and comfort in this very hard time.
I'm so sorry for your loss and sadness. These are beautiful memories - I hope they give you comfort at this time. Peace to you and your family.
I am so sorry for your loss. Your grandfather sounded like a great man, and I will keep your family in my thoughts... deepest condolences.
Such beautiful memories. Thinking of you in this sad time and sending a big cyber hug.
Here are two things --the only two things-- that my grandfather and I had in common: Making and Music.
He too was a carpenter and I would sit on a stack of lumber, quietly coveting his flat, knife-sharpened pencil and his chalky string winder thing, waiting for him to stop hammering and measure some more so that I could help him and wield those two items.
This is hard and I'm sorry that it is and I am holding you in my heart.
I'm sorry.
I'm so, so sorry. You and yours are in our thoughts.
I am so very sorry for your loss, send my love and thoughts to your family and his beloveds and wish him godspeed with a release from any pain he was in. you have written beautiful words that gave us piece of him and what he is to this world.
I'm so very sorry.
I'm so sorry. It does seem impossible. Surreal. I don't have words nearly as eloquent as yours on this sad night but please know that I'm sending you and your family light and love. The heart has a perfect memory....
I believe that no matter how far away a person's memory may be, there is always a flicker, or flash (like your Grandfather's camera) that lights that person's way through this darkness. It's filled with memories of Russian tools, a curious granddaughter, a mother's hug, a lasting love, and warmth.
May his passing give him the brightest flash filled with the most beautiful pictures from his memory.
Those are wonderful memories. Sending thoughts to you and yours.
That was absolutely beautiful. Dementia robs people of so much but in this case, not his family which truly is a blessing. My heart goes out to all of you tonight. May your entire family find peace.
Much love to you and your family. Thinking of you.
It's very hard. This is very beautiful. Love to you and your family.
Yes, I know. It seems impossible my grandfather is gone. Things aren't the same after. I'll always want to see him again.
My heart is aching for you and your family. No matter how ready one is to go or how expected a loss it is, it still feels like your insides are being torn up and a piece of yourself is being ripped away. The pain will ease though and you'll be left with a part of them inside of you , living on through your memories forever.
Big internet hugs. <3
I am very sorry for your loss.
Eight years ago I had four grandparents and today I have none. We buried my grandfather last August and then celebrated my sister's wedding a week later.
I miss them all and have made a point to blog about them. It has been a good way for me to "secure" my memories so that when the kids ask for stories I have many to tell.
Again, very sorry. Grandparents are special people.
My heart hurts for you and for your mother tonight. Big cyber hug.
What beautiful memories of what sounds like a wonderful man. Sending my prayers and love tonight for your family. xo
I'll be thinking of him and all of you. Dementia is so cruel.
I'm awfully sorry, E.
Sending you and your family love.
I am thinking of you & your family. May you all find the most solace that you can at this point. Much love <3
Times like these, words aren't much. <3
Love and Light to you and your family.
Crying for you and yours.
Oh Elan. I'm so sorry. Much love and strength to you and your mother. May your grandfather know he is loved. Xo
I lost my grandfather just over a year ago. He had not been doing well for some time, and I was phoned one day with the news that he'd fallen while in the bathroom and was no longer conscious. I left work and drove to Moose Jaw to pick up my mom -- his daughter -- and then sped immediately onward to Saskatoon. He was in bad shape. Terrible shape. I'd been with my grandmother on her last day nearly 20 years before, and I instantly recognized the similarities. So our family waited in the hospital, gathered together in oddly shaped rooms with uncomfortable couches, and tried to keep ourselves together between the tears and the quiet speculating. The hours pushed on and we were all exhausted emotionally. And as the day ticked over into night, everyone decided the best thing to do would be to go home and rest before coming back the next morning. But I was worried, and if something did happen that night I didn't want my grandfather to be alone. So my wife and I chose to stay with him in his room that night, and I sat by his bed and spoke to him and held his hand through the palsied shaking and spasms he suffered between the morphine injections. My uncle and his wife came by around 4:00 am, and I was convinced to go home and get some rest. He passed a little over an hour later. But at least he was not alone.
It's still a very difficult thing for me to deal with. And somehow the world seems like a much larger and emptier place with him no longer in it. So I feel your pain, Schmutzie. But a good friend told me that I was very lucky to have had in my life for so long, and that's a lovely way for me to remember him. Hopefully you'll feel that way too.
I'm so sorry to hear about this. Much love.
I'm so sorry. He sounds like a wonderful man. I'm sorry this disease stole so much from him, but I am thankful that you remember for him.
So sorry. It's hard to watch them go slowly. You would think that when the time comes you would be prepared but that just isn't the case. Grandparents are special, my heart hurts for you.
Hugs to you, fair lady. It sounds like he was a wonderful part of your life.
Everyone's death is so personal, so unique and yet at the same time it's also part of our human life. We live, we die....this doesn't make it easier but it does give me comfort of a kind. My father died last year and my mother the year before that, both suffering from dementia and in my father's case a raipid on set of Alzheimer's after my mother's death. It as sad to lose them but also a relief to see the end of their suffering and confusion. My thoughts are with you.....thank you for sharing your memories of a wonderful man.
Exquisite memories.
He'll live on in those memories.
I hope someone can describe me with such warmth and depth, when I'm someone's grandmother.
He will never be all the way gone. Even when your mind learns to understand, to accept this strange and final rest, your heart never does. And so in some way he is there, with you, always.
Love and strength and grace to you and your family. Also hugs that ask for no words.
Here is one (((( O ))))
This post brought tears to my eyes. I'm so sorry for your loss, and I'm so glad he has family by his side. I'm so glad you have wonderful memories of him. Dementia is so heartbreaking.
Thinking of you. <3
Big hugs to you. It's hard to see our loved ones suffer.
Many hugs to you and your family. It is so hard to slowly lose someone to memory loss because at the end they don't know who you are but the love and kindness and caring still come thru.
You may not have been physically there, but this proves you were and are and will be with him-- and him with you-- in all sorts of ways.
I always think of my Nana, who died after a long decline from Alzheimers (and which often wasn't pretty or comfortable in her decline) whenever I smell Caswell & Massey Lillies of the Valley perfume-- or see a cameo brooch.
(many, many hugs)
I am sorry. I know this pain as my grandparents are in their 90's and also close to the end of their days. My thoughts are with you and your family.
Lovely. Your grandfather will travel on this love from your family. How lucky for him, and you! I'm so glad that you have these memories to call back and such a beautiful medium with which to express them.
Thank you, too, for sharing with us.
Just to let you know, I'm thinking about you.
I'm so terribly sorry. I know how hard this kind of loss is. I hope you and your family can find some peace. xoxo
OH. My heart goes out to you - that, and a big hug. Keep his memories.
I wish you peace and love as you grieve your grandfather - my own grandfather passed away last month after a long battle with dementia; with the sadness came relief that his confused torment was over.
Much love to you and your family.
those strange in-between places of going. you do him honour with your words, here.
"We want this to be a celebration of life."
And really, that's what you wrote. Beautiful, and by turns sad and strange and surreal, and poignant and aching and overflowing with sense memory and love, for this man and for all those who felt and still feel such love for him.
I'm sorry, Schumtzie. These are hard situations when you're at a physical distance. You have my sympathy.
Attending someone else's death is one of the greatest, bravest, most loving acts I know of. This is a marvelous example of how to attend to a death process when one cannot be present. This post, this is great, and brave, and loving, and I honour you for it as you honour your grandfather and your family.
My heart goes out to you and your family.
I was blessed with a lot of elders who lived long enough for me to know them. Most of them for me to grow into adulthood. You pay for that blessing, though. We're old enough to really know and appreciate this part, too. This part is almost impossible. Almost.
Much love to all of you.
((hugs))
so hard. so good that you knew him so well.