I haven't blogged in a looooong time. There's a reason. In truthfulness, there are many reasons. I've been insanely busy with life. Insanely busy. Establishing my career. Taking care of three children, who are quickly becoming adults. Maintaining my home. Taking care of myself. There do not seem to be enough hours in the day, especially for a woman with high expectations of herself.
What does this have to do with Grandparents?
Well, with all of this "busyness" there has been a lot of change. Change = Stress. I have had a bus load of stress in the past three years or so (let's make that seven). With a job change, shift of stress, and chance at personal realization, I've had moments of clarity about loss and importance. Long story short - I've had time to mourn.
The picture above is incredible, heart breaking, and encapsulating for me. I took it while my Pop Pop was dying. He had been disappearing into dementia for years. One morning Grandmother found him surrounded by blood. After a rush to the hospital and a slew of tests, the doctors discovered he had such an advanced case of Bladder Cancer that he couldn't be expected to live longer than a few days.
Immediately, I flew to Nashville. I spent a week taking care of my Grandmother. I made her breakfast, dressed her, drove her to the hospital, sat bedside her with my Father and Judy, and waited. We waited for him to die. We waited for him to know where he was. We waited for any sign of recognition. My Grandmother would lean over him and say, "Give me a kiss." He always responded. With loss of memory, loss of ... everything, he would take every ounce of strength he had to raise his head, pucker his lips, and give her a kiss. I will never forget that. I will never cease longing for a love that strong. I will never be able to erase that image from my mind.
Pop Pop was an enigma to me. I recall memories with scent. His memory is a combination of hot, clean sweat, whiskey, and tobacco. He didn't smoke later in life (I don't think), but he raised tobacco. The clean, hot scent of hard work and outside seemed to seep from his pores. I loved the way he smelled. I loved how his skin was so dark and tan. I loved how he wore coveralls and sensible shoes. I loved the hat he wore whenever we went "to town". I loved the frozen water bottles in the trunk, his dry sense of humor, his inability to maintain a straight face at my dry humor (while Grandma sat slack-jawed in confusion), and his habitual flossing during the Evening News while sitting in "his" chair wearing nothing more than his wife beater and baby blue boxer shorts. I love my Pop Pop.
I spent every summer with my Grandparents on their farm outside of Nashville. My Grandparents were characters. Grandma - a neurotic volcano of emotions and expectations. Pop Pop - quiet cannon of emotions and thoughts. I only wanted to know more about him, wanted to spend time with him, and was therefore completely terrified of him. Making Pop Pop smile or seeing his pride burst forth were my goals. I love my Pop Pop.
He was a fisherman. I remember him taking the time to pull the boat out of the Basement to take me fishing. I was so quiet the entire time. I absolutely loved the peaceful serenity of Pop Pop, the lake, and waiting for a bite on the line. I will hold that moment with me always. Years later, as a young woman camping with a group of friends, I set out early in the morning with my girlfriend in a Canoe. I caught a fish within minutes, but was too chicken to knock it silly and remove the hook. We feverishly rowed back to shore, screaming for the manliest fisherman of the bunch whom, upon seeing me in tears, swiftly relieved the fish of his hook and gently placed him back in the water. I was the only one to catch a fish that day, but no fish was eaten. Pop Pop would have been proud and disgusted. He would have put the fish back in the water as well. He couldn't stand to see one of "his" girls cry. I still love to fish, but I better have a manly fisherman with me to take the dang things off the hook!
My other favorite memories of Pop Pop occurred at the end of each Summer visit. Pop Pop would call me down to the Basement, his haven of hoarding, dust, secret stashes of hooch, and privacy. I loved the Basement. There were man made aisles among rusty, broken, cast off office chairs and other awesome industrial looking relics. I absolutely loved being down there. Pop Pop would take me from file drawer to various and sundry other file drawers, pulling out fabulous pens, paper, pencils, and markers. To a writing, drawing child like me, this was pure heaven. I received a year of art supplies my parents would never buy me. Pop Pop probably spent pennies on the stash he bestowed upon me. To me, the stash was worth millions. I love my Pop Pop.
As I grew older, went to college, had my own apartment, got married, and had children, I always made time to visit my Grandparents. Their home became "home" to me. Bringing my children to the magical farm which held so many memories, became both painful and necessary. I NEEDED to go home often. I NEEDED to be in such a comfortable place. I NEEDED to be taken care of by the people who had cared for me for so many years. Then ... they started to change.
Grandma and Pop Pop became older. They looked tired. It was difficult to understand how much energy little children had. It became more and more taxing on them for us to visit. I started making breakfast during my visits and suggesting we go out for dinner (at 3pm). I made plans with cousins so the Grandparents could have a rest.
Sooner than I could have ever imagined, the day came when Pop Pop didn't know who I was. He tried to hide it. He attempted to act as if he knew what was going on around him, but his face gave him away. Fear replaced his glimmer and playfulness. Gone were the questions about my drive in and various routes I could have taken. I love my Pop Pop. I begin to mourn the man I've admired and loved my entire life. I become incredibly protective of him.
I don't completely understand my shock when I learn Pop Pop is dying. He is never supposed to die. He is an enigma. He is above death.
After a week of waiting, I had to return home. My children were starting school. I have responsibilities. I am torn apart. I don't want to leave. I walk over to Pop Pop's bed at Hospice. I gently touch his arm and lean over him. He looks up at me. He sees me. For the first time since I've arrived, he sees ME and says, "Heeeeyyyyy!!!!" with a glimmer in his eye. I am so happy. I feel his recognition. I feel his love for me. I look at him through welling tears and respond, "Heeyyyy!!! I sure love you!!!" and lean over to kiss his cheek. The moment is gone. I have been given my good bye. I love my Pop Pop.
He passed away two days later.I love my Pop Pop.
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