*If you are interested, the preceding chapters leading up to this blog posted below are actually posted almost in their entirety on the EXCERPTS Tab above. Scroll to Chapter 29 and Chapter 30. This Chapter, "End of an Era," is Chapter 31.
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June 27th, 1994. That date is ingrained in my brain. It was the morning that the most unbearable thing happened to me. It was the morning my grandpa died.
His health hadn’t been good over the last few months. He had congestive heart failure and was 88 years old. What can you expect, right? I even had to call an ambulance for him on one occasion. But nothing ever prepares you for that moment. Nothing.
I remember it clearly. Early that morning, my grandpa was taken to the hospital again for dizziness and shortness of breath. My mom was there with him. But this had happened lots of times, especially over the last six months or so. I didn’t have to be to work until later that day, so I was lounging in my bed, half asleep. My little brother was also home, in bed. When the phone rang I jumped up to answer it in my parents’ room (yeah, no phone line in my bedroom.) I didn’t expect it to be anyone or anything out of the ordinary.
That’s when I listened to my mother, as if not present in my own body, stunned into silence with tears streaming down my face. I finally grasped part of what she was saying, “Julie, Honey. It’s Mom. Grandpa passed away this morning.”
I screamed, “NOOOO!” into the phone (or maybe it was just in my head. I was sobbing too loudly to notice). I couldn’t make a coherent word come out of my mouth. “Shhhh…Shhh…Shhh….” My mother soothingly said. I couldn’t listen anymore. I threw the phone down on my parents’ bed in hysterics and screamed for my brother to get the phone and talk to mom. I ran out of the room, not even noticing if my brother went to pick up the phone or not. My grandpa was gone. And I never even got to say goodbye.
I hurled myself onto my bed, crushed my face into my pillow and cried as loud and as long as I ever have in my entire life. I shook uncontrollably as tears streamed out of my eyes and down my cheeks, soaking my pillow. At some point, I became aware of my little brother who came into the room crying, reaching out his arms to hug me. He was all alone too. He was hurting. Why weren’t our parents here to hug us? I shook my head at him. “Go away!” I screamed. He cried harder and sat next to me on the bed, grabbing me from behind in a hug. Finally, I succumbed. Some part of my brain realized that he needed comforting too. And I was the only one there to give it to him. We sat there for maybe five minutes. Hugging and crying. Then he got up and went to his room.
I don’t know what else happened that day. I remember crying on my bed until I had exhausted myself. It was hours. I didn’t think the human body could produce that many tears and that much sorrow. I wept. I agonized. I felt guilty for not being with him. I wanted to hold his hand one more time, and sit on his lap one more time. I wanted to tell him I loved him just one more time. My grandpa was like a second father to me – a secret confidant and constant patriarch in our crazy household. He was always there. From the time I was born until the time I graduated from college, he was always there. At the age of 22, I finally understood what all those people meant when they talk about having a broken heart. That morning I felt my heart break. And I have never felt such sadness or such great loss since.
For that, I am thankful.
I insisted on going through my grandpa’s things with my dad the next day. Tears were running down my face the entire time. No one else was there; it was just me and my dad. I remember sitting on the floor next to him as he opened a letter that he found in the dresser drawer; it was my grandpa’s handwritten “Last Will and Testament.” I stared at his writing on the page, and thought, “I will never see him write again.” I will never see him again. I was sick to my stomach. I sat in his Lazy-Boy chair and rocked as I stared out the window.
His funeral was a few days later. My brothers and sisters and I were the pall bearers. It was my greatest honor and my greatest sorrow. It was the last time I “held” my grandpa. We didn’t go to the cemetery. My parents and my oldest brother, Brian, were the only ones to go. He is buried next to Grandma Jane.
I have never been to the cemetery to see my grandpa’s now-engraved headstone.
It’s too painful.
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In the two+ years since I wrote this, I have, unfortunately, felt that heart break again. But, such is life. It has made me become the person I am now. Even though it’s been 18 years since that day, as I read this back, it’s as if it was yesterday. Tears stream down my cheeks as I remember the love and the loss. One thing that I still miss, more than anything, is holding my grandpa’s hand. I never stopped doing it when he was alive. From the time I was a toddler, until I was a 22-year-old know-it-all-young woman, I held my grandpa’s hand wherever we went. I was never ashamed. I was never embarrassed. It was love. And, it was just what he and I always did. The simple gesture of holding hands while strolling into the hardware store with him, or walking into church on Sunday morning was automatic. And, after his death, the one thing that made my heart ache the most was not feeling his hand in mine anymore. It’s funny how something so simple and so gentle, can mean so much to someone and carry such value and weight. A lot of meaning and an underlying understanding of love, compassion and kindness went into the clasp our hands. Gestures don’t have to be big to show someone how much you value and care for them…sometimes, the smallest thing can speak the loudest sentiments. I’ve said this a gazillion times before…it’s the little things in life that lead to the biggest things in life. A kind note, a short message, a quick hug, or simply holding someone’s hand can speak just as loudly as a two-hour phone conversation, an elaborate weekend away or a big, expensive gift.
Speak small and you will speak loud.
I think it’s time for me to take a trip to the cemetery to see my grandpa’s gravestone. Even at the thought of this, my stomach is twisting in knots and my heart is filling with sadness and aching in pain…but I think he’s smiling at me from heaven knowing I am finally brave enough to do this. I’ve “spoke” to my grandpa throughout the years…sending silent prayers to him whenever I’ve felt most troubled, or, when, for some reason or other, I was missing him. But, I think he’d be proud and honored that I’m finally willing to make the traditional visit that we used to do together when I was a child. This small gesture is for me. But it’s also for him. I held his hand my entire life. I know he’d hold mine right now if he could. Don’t be afraid or embarrassed to speak in small or quiet gestures…they can have the greatest effect on someone you care about.
Speak small and you will speak loud. The person whom you most want to hear it, will hear it.