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…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…
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, 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.
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 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.
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It took me 3 more years to get up the courage to actually make that trip to the cemetery. On Friday, May 22, 2015, I finally went to see where my grandpa is buried. I didn’t know quite how to feel as I headed downtown with my dad and brother-in-law. Contemplative, I suppose. I was glad I wasn’t driving and could just sit in the back seat and let my mind wander.
My dad and brother-in-law wanted to locate some other family members’ plots while we were there, so we stopped in at the office to have them map out some information for us. The men were up at the counter chatting with the employee and I wandered around the lobby. I snatched a raspberry lemonade DumDum sucker from the complimentary basket. Mmmm… I hadn’t had one of these since I was a kid. And, they never had flavors this tasty back then! Memories of the Brach’s hard candy from my grandpa’s candy dish which had a permanent place on his dresser came flooding back. I supposed the nostalgia was welcome and appropriate. I sucked on the lollipop and waited. And waited. And waited. By the time we left, the guys had about eight different maps with the world’s smallest handwritten print scribbled into a zillion plot markers on the grid-like maps. It was like we were on a treasure hunt. For…dead people. (Ugh. That sounds so awful, doesn’t it?) I know no other way to cope with life’s most difficult and awful situations than with humor.
The first stop on our list was to see my grandparents’ grave sites. Of course, my dad knew the way, and within minutes we were upon their granite stones set flush in the grass. The moment my eyes grasped the death date of June 27, 1994, carved into the stone, the tears sprang from eyes. As the salty tears poured down my cheeks, I gulped, and thought, “Ohh… Grandpa. I miss you. Am I doing everything right? Are things going to work out?” At that very moment, the wind blew through the trees, rustling the leaves, and simultaneously, I heard a very loud and long train horn. I immediately took it as a sign from him. I almost guffawed out loud at my grandpa’s humor when I heard the train horn blow, but choked back the silent laugh. Since March, whenever I hear trains I think of my 15 for a multitude of reasons. (If you read my last blog, you’ll understand the “15” reference, at least partially.) Coincidence? Maybe. But I like to think it was my grandpa. Whether it meant he knew about everything I’d gone through as of late, or whether he was telling me something else, I don’t know. But one thing I was sure of, he heard me and knew I was there. I walked back to the car with my dad to get the garden tools to clean the gravestones, and my dad talked the entire way. I followed behind, with tears running down my face and thankful for my sunglasses.
We got the tools out of the car and I gasped, “I’m sorry, Dad. I...It’s… it’s the first time…” My words trailed off in my choked cry as the tears poured down my face. How could something that happened 21 years ago, still have such a profound and immediate effect on me? It was as if he had died yesterday.
My dad simply said, “It’s okay, Jule. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. It's not always about the words that are said. Sometimes, the most meaningful moments in our life don’t need words. Just…the quiet ... Going through it.”
I hastily wiped my eyes and trudged ahead of him back to my Grandpa’s stone. I knelt down on the ground, took the small garden shovel and began the painstaking work of cutting away the overgrown grass from the granite marker. Ohhh, I can’t even count the number of times I sat and watched my grandpa do this for my grandma’s headstone when I was a kid and came with him. I wanted to make him proud. I cleaned his stone, and my grandma’s, as tears splashed down the entire time. I don’t know why I continued to weep, but my eyes were like a faucet as I worked. I didn’t say a word. My dad and brother-in-law worked on the other family stones, and took pictures for the family tree as they prattled on about family history and such… I don’t really remember much of what was said. I was zoned out in my own world. I embraced the silence, I suppose. I don't think I've been that quiet around people for a very, very long time. Finally, I stood up and surveyed my work. I felt satisfied as I pulled off my gloves and saw the new blister on the palm of my left hand. I quietly laughed to myself, thinking, “See, Gramps? Hard work. I even got a blister for you.” The rest of the day was much easier to bear, and filled with some fun conversation, lunch and coffee with my dad and brother-in-law at Eastern Market. I was glad I shared this moment with them ... two great men who’ve always had my back throughout my life. I wrote this blog as tribute to them, to my Grandpa, to my brothers, and to all of the dads out there. Happy Father’s day to you all, and remember the wise words my dad said to me that day, "Sometimes, it’s not about the words." Just be there. Your loved ones, children, grandchildren and all of the other people you care about will notice, and they’ll remember. Just like the act of my grandpa and I holding hands… a small quiet gesture can speak louder than any word, or any gift purchased. Be in the moment.
Happy Father’s Day!