Grief isn't something I've been called to much in the last little while. But my grandfather, one of my life's hero's and most favourite people, passed away rather suddenly a few weeks ago.
Death isn't often a happy story, and this is no exception. But the story is as good as one can hope for I think. He was a regular smoker who had been smoking since his early teens. After a stroke when I was about seven years old he was told that if he didn't quit, he wasn't likely to last more than five more years. About twenty-three years later, at the ripe young age of 80, cancer finally took him. He had been diagnosed with stage 4 about a month prior and given 6-12 months to live. He made it a little over a month. Processing these feelings has been a bit of a ride. A significant portion of my prayers since as early as I can remember has been dedicated to pleading God to help him quit smoking. For whatever reason, that never happened, but I will be eternally grateful that his life, and quality of it, lasted as long as it did.
Life can be so interesting. In so many ways it feels like he couldn't possibly be gone, and yet the fact remains that he is. His life was, I'm sure to an outside observer, unremarkable in many ways. Born in the backwoods of Muskoka (long before Toronto's rich and made it posh and desirable), a factory worker, smoker, and father of four, he tended to stick to what he liked and knew (scratching bingo cards and drinking coffee. I suspect he kept more than a few convenience stores in business), didn't tend to travel far from home (unless it was to visit family), and was known to have a wry and wicked sense of humour.
And yet for those of us who knew and loved him, he was a great man. He spent his life quietly serving, without ever asking for any kind of recognition or compensation. Despite the fact that he had never been an active member of the LDS church, he funded more than a few missions, contributed to many more, and gave wherever he could. He and my grandmother had been separated for a few years before she died suddenly from a car accident in 1999. The story goes that while taking care of her affairs after her death, someone checked her answering machine. On it, was a message from him telling her he'd managed to pay her credit card before she could get to it, and that her medication had been paid for. Even though she had left him, he still insisted on caring for her. He lived frugally, but enjoyed taking us out for dinners and breakfasts, a rarity in our home as a child. Once in first grade, my little sister was talking to some of her friends and they were discussing all the best things about their grandparents, and the gifts that they would get when grandma and grandpa visited. Gumpo was never the most conventional of grandparents but my sister was sure she topped them all when she said "when my grandpa comes, he takes us out for breakfast and dinner!". I don't think it came off as impressive as she knew it was.
Despite the fact that he was a decided homebody as his grandchildren we knew that we could count on an annual visit from him. There were no exceptions to this. He came to find us wherever we lived, including when we lived in Italy. For most, a trip to Italy is a highlight of a lifetime. For him, he took the trip out of a grudging necessity to see his grandchildren, and delighted in calling it "wopy town". On his visits he demonstrated zero appreciation for the food, culture, or language. He never gave up hope he might find some place that would serve him pork chops and potatoes. Cultured, he may not have been. But we didn't care one bit.
My sister snapped this shot of him last summer at our family reunion. He had had always been gruff with a soft interior, but the softer side had become more apparent in his later years. She gave my the framed photo for Christmas, long before we knew he was sick, and I sobbed like a baby when I opened it. It captures who he was to me. Two weeks before he died I called him to check in. He sounded so much better than the last time I had heard from him. I told him he sounded great, and he replied "I feel great! You want to go dancing? I think the last time I danced was at your wedding". It was all I could do to hold it together. And so I anxiously wait for when I can take him up on his offer, but until then, I comfort myself with this photo of him dancing with my baby.
Grief is such an odd thing. There's no right or wrong way of going about it. How can such sadness be accompanied by something that was so wonderful? Because it was. Having him was such a gift. And it's the loss if it that feels so...empty. But what a beautiful life. What a beautiful man. What a beautiful gift.
Ahhh yes.... when I needed to change moms answering machine message from 'don't forget to feed the birds' to 'Dollys' funeral service is to be held at etc...' there was an archived message that sounded like this: "Dolly, this is Leo, Master Card sent me a new card, please write down this number....then I've been to the pharmacy across the road and given it to the owner so that you can get anything you need from there and of course use it for anything else you need.'
ReplyDeleteI knew at that point he'd been going into the insurance office in order to pay both her car and house insurance which was challenging because she took him off title for both and he had to remember which month to go in and pay it. He mentioned once that the staff in the various insurance offices advised him that they weren't technically allowed to tell him the size of the bill but he'd talk them into it in order to get those paid without her knowing it, usually in advance of the arrival of the reminder notice. She was a lucky woman.
I miss the smell of his stale tobacco and the texture of his cotton searsucker shirt as I'd press my face into his shoulder. I know he's just around the corner but my ache for him is endless, thanks for this Sam...I love you too.
<3 thanks! I love that guy!
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