Tribute
It is Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house and my mom has helped me change into my pajamas. I am six years old. It was an expert parenting technique--bringing along pajamas. This way, if we fell asleep in the car on the way home, transport from the car to our beds was relatively easy. I like the cozy way it feels to be riding in the car late at night in my pajamas. I press my cheek to the glass as we drive and try to find Santa Claus.
Earlier that evening, my grandfather asked me about my piano lessons, his blue eyes sparkling. I answer him in bits and pieces and then run off to play with my cousins. I do not remember ever sitting on his lap or chatting with him at length about anything. Before I get into my pajamas, he presses a crisp dollar bill into my hand. I reach up and kiss him on the cheek.
...
Roughly 44 years ago, my mother's little brother, Thomas, died of leukemia at the age of four. He was sick for a few years but no one ever explained what was going on to the other children. My mother was seven. She remembers walking by the bathroom as Thomas vomited blood into the sink. She remembers standing and secretly watching my grandfather sob into his hands in the living room.
On the day of Thomas' funeral, no one can find my mother's hat. She cannot go to church without a hat and so she is left home. No one explains Thomas' sickness or death and no one mentions his name again. At seven, my mother struggles to understand.
...
Losing a child must be the worst pain that anyone can ever experience. I believe my grandparents gathered up their grief, stowed it away in a corner of their hearts and locked it up forever. I believe they saw no other way to go on. They had to survive even though their hearts were shattered and darkness threatened to encapsulate them. They wanted to sink but chose to swim.
How do you move forward after you bury your baby?
You do. But you are not the same. You blame yourself for not praying enough. You leave the Catholic church. You control everything in your life as best you can because that pain can never come back. You can't get too close in case you lose again. You cannot lose.
...
When I was four years old, we moved out of my grandparents' town to a rustic area of Long Island, forty-five minutes east. Forty-five minutes. Throughout my childhood and young adult life, I saw my grandparents on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Easter and maybe a 4th of July barbecue.
I believe that it was their choice to remain distant and absent for most of my life. One reason could be because they were grandparents to twenty-eight grandchildren and really, how can you be present for all those kids!? But mostly, I think it was protective. I think they were scared. I think they did the best they could. I received birthday cards and "Thinking of You" cards and crisp dollar bills pressed into my palm.
...
At some point while I was in college, my grandfather's body became ravaged by Parkinson's disease. It had probably taken up residence in him long before that but due to a lifelong fear of doctors, it had only recently been diagnosed. Family gatherings were now punctuated by my grandfather's awkward shaking and constant walking around the house with his walker. But he would still smile and his blue eyes would sparkle and I would tell him about college and auditions and moving to the city. I could never sit still with him for long because he would shake and because I didn't know what to say and because I was uncomfortable.
...
This past Sunday, my cousin Tom and I went to pick my grandmother up at the hospital to take her to my house for a Memorial Day barbecue. My grandfather was bedridden and the family figured she could use a break. I had not seen either of them since Christmas Eve. Since then, my grandfather had dropped approximately thirty pounds.
I walked into the hospital room with Alayna and Tom and inhaled sharply. My grandmother was sleeping on a chair in the far corner of the room and my grandfather was not recognizable. He was frail and small and consumed by tubes. His head was tilted back, his mouth slightly open, his chest moving up and down slowly as he slept.
I burst into tears then, at the shock of what I was seeing. It was, essentially, not the grandfather I knew, in whatever capacity I knew him. His eyes no longer sparkled and he no longer had a bad combover and his beautiful long fingers no longer played the piano. After waking my grandmother up, Tom and I stepped up to his bedside to say goodbye. He was awake.
His sapphire eyes flashed with recognition and his hands jerked out from beside him, reaching desperately for us. Without missing a beat, I grabbed one, veiny and soft and held on tight. It was the first time in years that I saw him lay still, not trembling or convulsing. I locked my eyes with his and gently touched his forehead with my free hand.
"I love you," I said.
"You look FANTASTIC!" I joked.
"We're going to take grandma for a bit, but she'll be back," said Tom.
"Just rest," I said.
He was staring at me and I hated that I was crying. I tried to be strong for him but I couldn't. I hated that he was lying there and that he was in pain and that he couldn't speak. I squeezed his hand and stroked his eyebrows and we walked out of the hospital.
...
My grandfather passed away about a half hour ago. Five of his seven children were standing around his bedside. The other two were not due in town until Saturday. Everyone told him that they loved him and that it was okay to let go.
I am going to choose not to remember him the way that I last saw him, pale and small, like an infant, with tubes and a hospital gown. I am going to choose to remember his fingers running along the piano keys, him saying grace at the Thanksgiving dinner table and his slight arms around me as I reach up to hug him in my Christmas pajamas.
