Facing the unknown
Last night, I did something that I never thought I would do before.
I wrote a letter to "crow." "Crow" isn't a person I know, and it isn't another one of my personalities or anything like that. "Crow" is simply what I choose to believe is a spirit guide of mine.
But I've written to "crow" before. A nameless black corvid with a penchant for adaptive living, "crow" is something of an enigma to me, but I still try to communicate with him/her all the same.
But last night, as I stuffed the letter to crow and an offering of bread into an envelope and left it on my bedroom alter, I thought about the request I had made of crow in the letter, and I had to fight back some of the toughest emotions I've ever known.
I asked crow to find my grandfather and tell him that I'm Ok, that I tried, and that I'm sorry. This is going to sound really lame, but I sent crow to find the soul of a man who had been dead for seventeen days.
I didn't ask crow to bring him back, of course. 'Sides, I couldn't abide my bald, hispanic grandfather showing up at my doorstep in a long dark coat and clown make up.
Ah, the plot thickens.
Yesterday afternoon, my mother called me. You all know by now that this is never a good thing. She called to tell me that my grandfather had died of complications due to the chemotherapy he had been receiving for his lung cancer. "Pneumonia," she said, as I sank to my knees.
I wasn't surprised he was dead of course. What did surprise me, however, was when my mother told me he had died on October 29th of this year.
it took my parents seventeeen days to get around to telling me that he was dead.
And the capper to this story was that my mother then proceeded to tell me that I had broken my grandfather's heart.
Allow me to explain. When I was first given news of my grandfather's diagnosis of lung cancer more than four months ago, my father had asked me to call him. To say what? I have no idea. Of course, being the fine bastions of communication they all are back at home, my father had given me my grandfather's home number and told me that he would be keeping in touch with me to update me on my grandfather's condition.
From my end, having this kind of news sprung on me was hard enough, but it was even harder for me to think of what I could possibly say to a man that I had only ever known as a lonely, cynical, angry person with a death wish - a person that I know now I have been struggling not to become. It took me three weeks to get the courage to call him. But twice I got no answer.
Then, like an idiot, I lost my grandfather's number., Determined to figure this out and say something to the man, I tried to call my parents. Not once, but twice. The first time, my call didn't even seem to go through. The phone rang for ten minutes before I gave it up. The second time.....well, the impression that I got was that my mother answered, pretended not to hear me, and hung up on me. Still unphased, I e-mailed my father and waited for three weeks, checking my e-mail once a day. Nothing.
I gave up on my parents at that moment, unsure how I would get my grandfather's information. I turned my apartment upside down for three days in search of that phone number. I scoured the internet, looked at dozens of "find this person" websites, and even considered hiring a private detective to get the information for me, whatever the cost. And it was all to avoid having to call my parents again just to have my mother play her dramatic little games with me.
And here I was yesterday, sitting in the same spot I am right now, listening to this cold witch of a woman tell me that I had broken my grandfather's heart.
Before I could muster a reply, of course, she had hung up on me. Stunned, I slowly placed my phone back in its cradle and paced. "What the fuck do I do now?" I asked myself.
Minutes passed as I tried to absorb the enormity of the this news. My grandfather was dead, my mother was angry (what else is new?) and my father....
Wait, what happened to my father? Why didn't he call me sooner?
as if in response to my latest internal query, the phone rang again. I picked it up, answered horsely, and waited.
"You destroyed your father too."
Rage such as I'd never known suddenly burst forth.
"BULLSHIT!" I screamed. But it was too late. All i could hear on the other end was the tone of a conversation abruptly ended.
Before I even knew what I was thinking, I scrambled to find a phone card. Without missing a beat, I dialed the 1-800 number, the card number, and then my home phone number and waited. My parents let their answering machine pick up (cowards) and then I spoke.
"OK. I got the news. Now let me make something as clear to you both as possible."
I was surprised at the calm in my voice. And I was even more surprised when I heard my father's voice.
"Yeah," was all he said, but the tone in his voice spoke volumes. It was cold and distant.
"Well I got the news," I pressed on.
"Yep."
I was livid.
"Why the fuck did it take you seventeen days to tell me?"
"Why the fuck didn't you call him?" Dad replied.
"Why don't you ask your wife?" I snarled.
Silence.
"Where is he buried?" I asked, barely able to control my rage.
"New Jersey?"
"Why the fuck is he buried there? What's the significance of that place to him?"
"He didn't want to be buried underground."
"Hmm," was all I could say to that. I now found myself wondering if my grandfather and I shared claustrophobia among other numerous fears. What else didn't I know about him?
"Hey man, why don't I call you later?" Dad suddenly said. The distance in his voice had been replaced by something much worse. Urgent entreaty. It had been something I had only heard once before, and it had been no more of a comfort at that moment.
But as entreaty (and was that panic?) came to my father's voice, a jagged shard of ice burst through my heart. I snorted in utter disgust.
"Yeah right," I said, before hanging up.
I've been replaying this scene in my head ever since. I am, as of now, unable to speak to the hatred I feel, not for my parents themselves, but for what they chose to do in this situation. I waver between pity and heartache for my parents, but what is done is done. I didn't even get the chance to decide whether or not I would be attending my own grandfather's funeral. This has been, without a doubt, the last straw as far as I am concerned.
Heaven help my parents if they try to speak to me again.
I wrote a letter to "crow." "Crow" isn't a person I know, and it isn't another one of my personalities or anything like that. "Crow" is simply what I choose to believe is a spirit guide of mine.
But I've written to "crow" before. A nameless black corvid with a penchant for adaptive living, "crow" is something of an enigma to me, but I still try to communicate with him/her all the same.
But last night, as I stuffed the letter to crow and an offering of bread into an envelope and left it on my bedroom alter, I thought about the request I had made of crow in the letter, and I had to fight back some of the toughest emotions I've ever known.
I asked crow to find my grandfather and tell him that I'm Ok, that I tried, and that I'm sorry. This is going to sound really lame, but I sent crow to find the soul of a man who had been dead for seventeen days.
I didn't ask crow to bring him back, of course. 'Sides, I couldn't abide my bald, hispanic grandfather showing up at my doorstep in a long dark coat and clown make up.
Ah, the plot thickens.
Yesterday afternoon, my mother called me. You all know by now that this is never a good thing. She called to tell me that my grandfather had died of complications due to the chemotherapy he had been receiving for his lung cancer. "Pneumonia," she said, as I sank to my knees.
I wasn't surprised he was dead of course. What did surprise me, however, was when my mother told me he had died on October 29th of this year.
it took my parents seventeeen days to get around to telling me that he was dead.
And the capper to this story was that my mother then proceeded to tell me that I had broken my grandfather's heart.
Allow me to explain. When I was first given news of my grandfather's diagnosis of lung cancer more than four months ago, my father had asked me to call him. To say what? I have no idea. Of course, being the fine bastions of communication they all are back at home, my father had given me my grandfather's home number and told me that he would be keeping in touch with me to update me on my grandfather's condition.
From my end, having this kind of news sprung on me was hard enough, but it was even harder for me to think of what I could possibly say to a man that I had only ever known as a lonely, cynical, angry person with a death wish - a person that I know now I have been struggling not to become. It took me three weeks to get the courage to call him. But twice I got no answer.
Then, like an idiot, I lost my grandfather's number., Determined to figure this out and say something to the man, I tried to call my parents. Not once, but twice. The first time, my call didn't even seem to go through. The phone rang for ten minutes before I gave it up. The second time.....well, the impression that I got was that my mother answered, pretended not to hear me, and hung up on me. Still unphased, I e-mailed my father and waited for three weeks, checking my e-mail once a day. Nothing.
I gave up on my parents at that moment, unsure how I would get my grandfather's information. I turned my apartment upside down for three days in search of that phone number. I scoured the internet, looked at dozens of "find this person" websites, and even considered hiring a private detective to get the information for me, whatever the cost. And it was all to avoid having to call my parents again just to have my mother play her dramatic little games with me.
And here I was yesterday, sitting in the same spot I am right now, listening to this cold witch of a woman tell me that I had broken my grandfather's heart.
Before I could muster a reply, of course, she had hung up on me. Stunned, I slowly placed my phone back in its cradle and paced. "What the fuck do I do now?" I asked myself.
Minutes passed as I tried to absorb the enormity of the this news. My grandfather was dead, my mother was angry (what else is new?) and my father....
Wait, what happened to my father? Why didn't he call me sooner?
as if in response to my latest internal query, the phone rang again. I picked it up, answered horsely, and waited.
"You destroyed your father too."
Rage such as I'd never known suddenly burst forth.
"BULLSHIT!" I screamed. But it was too late. All i could hear on the other end was the tone of a conversation abruptly ended.
Before I even knew what I was thinking, I scrambled to find a phone card. Without missing a beat, I dialed the 1-800 number, the card number, and then my home phone number and waited. My parents let their answering machine pick up (cowards) and then I spoke.
"OK. I got the news. Now let me make something as clear to you both as possible."
I was surprised at the calm in my voice. And I was even more surprised when I heard my father's voice.
"Yeah," was all he said, but the tone in his voice spoke volumes. It was cold and distant.
"Well I got the news," I pressed on.
"Yep."
I was livid.
"Why the fuck did it take you seventeen days to tell me?"
"Why the fuck didn't you call him?" Dad replied.
"Why don't you ask your wife?" I snarled.
Silence.
"Where is he buried?" I asked, barely able to control my rage.
"New Jersey?"
"Why the fuck is he buried there? What's the significance of that place to him?"
"He didn't want to be buried underground."
"Hmm," was all I could say to that. I now found myself wondering if my grandfather and I shared claustrophobia among other numerous fears. What else didn't I know about him?
"Hey man, why don't I call you later?" Dad suddenly said. The distance in his voice had been replaced by something much worse. Urgent entreaty. It had been something I had only heard once before, and it had been no more of a comfort at that moment.
But as entreaty (and was that panic?) came to my father's voice, a jagged shard of ice burst through my heart. I snorted in utter disgust.
"Yeah right," I said, before hanging up.
I've been replaying this scene in my head ever since. I am, as of now, unable to speak to the hatred I feel, not for my parents themselves, but for what they chose to do in this situation. I waver between pity and heartache for my parents, but what is done is done. I didn't even get the chance to decide whether or not I would be attending my own grandfather's funeral. This has been, without a doubt, the last straw as far as I am concerned.
Heaven help my parents if they try to speak to me again.