Thu 27 Dec 2007
So my relaxing hometown holiday week got diverted when my grandfather, who has been struggling with cancer for the last little while, took a turn for the urgent-health-situation worse. After I arrived at my parents’ house in Humboldt on Christmas Eve, we all boarded a plane early Christmas morning to come to southern California and spend time with him and the extended family for the holiday instead. Since this will likely be the last time I get to see him, I’ve been so grateful for the chance to be around him and the family; there were a few days in which I thought I would never see him again, and I hadn’t felt like I’d been ready to say goodbye the last time.
This is my first time trying to say goodbye to somebody who I know will die soon. It is both a very special and a very awkward opportunity. I find myself really shy around him during the limited time he has energy to hang out and chat–I want to talk about the fact that he’s dying but I’m nervous about bringing it up. I want to know if he’s scared or resigned or annoyed or if he has regrets or triumphs or if he wants another glass of water. But I mostly sit there, round-eyed, trying desperately to think of something to say besides “How are you doing?” to which the answer, of course, is “terrible.” I make banal comments on the weather and compliment his house. I kick myself after leaving his room to let him nap.
He is frailer and smaller than I have ever seen him, of course, but he’s still the same man. I find myself soaking up his face and voice with total pleasure, just marking him down in my head, drinking him in–yes, that is my grandfather. That is the man who put me through college, who didn’t understand my decision to pursue theatre but who supported me every step of the way anyway, who told me not to wait another minute when I told him I wanted to start my own theatre company ‘in five years or so.’ We had that conversation three and a half years ago, and I have now been working on my theatre company for three years. To say that he had an influence on my life is a vast understatement. This is his face. This is his voice. His affection when I saw him the once or twice a year throughout my life was gruff but unmistakable. His first concern is for whether or not I have enough money, and then come questions about my theater and my love life. He is characterized by generosity, a lovable wit, a way of telling you things frankly that make you feel you are in his close confidence, a wry smile, a pleasure at being in charge and making sure things are done right. If he is at the table, he is picking up the tab. There is no discussion permitted about this. A desire to personally ensure that everyone is comfortable. This is his face, and this is his voice. Both are the same as they have always been, though his body is failing. (I am grateful that his mind is perfectly intact; he is still very much present, alert, and smart, and so this time with him feels worthwhile.) I wish that his approaching death did not strike me dumb the way it does, because I want so much to tell him over and over again how much I love him, and see in his face that he understands. I’m afraid to cry in front of him because I don’t want him to feel responsible for comforting me. I realize this is silly. I shed a few tears talking to his stepdaughter on the patio today, when I had escaped the house to read in the sun, but otherwise I’ve been hanging on to them for more private disposal.
The house is full of people–my grandmother’s children from a previous marriage as well as his own children and their families have all come to the house to lend support and bid farewell. Despite the somberness of the occasion, for me it is wonderful to see so much of the family at once, especially Joan’s children, whom I’ve never had the chance to get to know well. We eat, talk, clean up after ourselves, drink, occasionally weep unashamed but restrained tears. There’s lots of love in the house, and preemptive grief, and caution about treating each other well, the sides of the family that don’t know each other enough yet to be quite comfortable with all the messiness and emotion that comes down when somebody dies. So many people have a claim on this man, because he has loved so many.
The presence of so many people in their house seems both stressful and pleasing to my grandparents. This contributes to my shyness. I’m overwhelmed and a little full of unshed tears, but I keep being suffused with inexplicable little throbs of happiness and contentment. Christmas dinner was beautiful and wonderful. I am happy to be down here with everyone even for a few days, I’m very happy that I get to touch and talk to my grandpa one more time, and aside from my pernicious social awkwardness, I feel at peace with the grief coming on.
Oh, there’s more to type, but it’s late and I’m tired for once. Sometime someone remind me to write something about my personal fear of the coming indignity of other people overriding my own decisions “for my own good” when I reach this stage myself. Of course, in most cases, those upstarts will be right, and if I’m as together as Papa is, I’ll probably notice that myself and hopefully acquiesce gracefully. But since reaching adulthood, it sure has been nice to be in charge of my own life. I wonder what it’s like to start sacrificing some of that control again. I doubt it’s totally pleasant.
I am surrounded by sadness and love, and they fit together nicely. I hope you all are having holidays that are meaningful and full of goodness. Holy crap, every year I get another inkling about how important family really is. I have been occasionally slow, learning this lesson. But I’m getting it a little bit, finally. More next year, I bet.
xoxo
Alissa