(no subject)
I've been meaning to write down what I've been going through and help work myself through all the cluster-fuck of feelings I've had.. just haven't found the time and right emotions to do so. I'll try now.
He had been sick for about two months. It seemed to me like it came out of nowhere. For at least fifty years prior, he had made the trip to his office in downtown Midland, up a flight of stairs that I counted once to be.. well hell.. at least 15, and worked full days. He was always the strongest one. So when he was diagnosed with Pneumonia/Staph infection on top of COPD, it sorta took me by surprise. He admitted himself to the hospital, agreed to treatment, and ended up getting weaker and unable to take care of himself. Over the course of these two months, he transferred to hospice, and then Manor Park, and then ended up in the CCU. Granddaddy took pride in his intellect and ability to care for himself through all of the achievements and disappointments in life, so this was a tough time for him. The time came when he could either have surgery to remove the blockage in his lungs, or he would probably die. The surgery was done, and the only way to help him heal properly was to heavily sedate him, and insert a feeding tube. I could handle the hospital, and seeing him do his breathing treatments, and being poked and prodded with IVs a few times a week.. but the feeding tube was pretty rough. Seeing him able to raise his eyebrows and move his hands was a little promising, and I tried to remember every second of those movements. It seems a little stupid now, but I stared at him trying to remember his facial features, every sun spot, wrinkle, and white hair on his face and head.
The second day I went up with my mom to visit him, his hands were more swollen from all the fluids that his kidney wasn't filtering, and they had him under more sedation than the day before. Even his eyes weren't moving under his eyelids. I fixed his hair and gently squeezed his hand. He had bad bruises and blood from the nurses trying to insert an IV anywhere they could. His skin and blood were so thin from taking Coumadin for years. They kept telling me they know when he's too hot or cold, when he's uncomfortable, etc. I still don't think so. Science and numbers can tell you some things, but one's level of comfort is not told from those fucking screens. I felt so helpless.. probably more so than him. He didn't deserve to have his life ended in that way. I was told he always thought he was going to go to sleep one night and never wake up, or have a heart attack and that would be it. I think our entire family wishes he could've had his way.
So the night came when my mom called me and said he was going into renal failure. I'm completely ignorant when it comes to medicine and all the shit you pay doctors and nurses to know, but I've seen enough episodes of House and Grey's Anatomy (don't judge me) to know that is a turning point. The next day, it was a beautiful 70 degrees outside. Finally, I felt the energy to get out and be productive. Instead, I found myself crying too hard to leave, so I sat in my room hanging up blank canvases .. and posters I've stolen from ex-boyfriends, who could never appreciate them anyway. My phone rang, my mom's name came up on the caller ID, I took a deep breath, and answered. He had "passed on". It had been "his time". Does anyone else hate hearing that? I'm not religious, so someone telling me "God took him back because it was his time", or "he's up in Heaven now where he wanted to be", or anything else related to such.. kind of peeves me. Granddaddy wasn't necessarily religious either, so all I have to do is kind of laugh. I know it's one's own way of dealing with that news, and perhaps I'm being a drama mama about it, it just isn't EVER want I want to hear. I hung up, turned the music up, cried, and continued hanging my art.
It's Friday and we're on our way to Midland. I always thought it was kind of required to have a funeral.. how dumb am I. Where do you have a funeral if you don't want it in a church? Well, who knows, but Granddaddy opted out of one altogether. Instead, his viewing was that evening, and a "graveside service" was to be held Saturday. We got into town, changed into appropriate attire, and headed up there to set up his frames we put together. Someone had already set up a memorabilia table. His army hat/patch/picture, some core samples that were made to be paperweights, a pair of his reading glasses, the family photo book Mindy and I had put together for everyone for Christmas, and a bunch of other stuff that just screamed Russell Stipp. I signed the guest book, and headed into the room with his casket. I went to Bo's and Chigger's funerals, so it wasn't a big surprise.. but I guess since I've always been closer with Granddaddy.. it was a little more difficult. He didn't look the way he did the last time I saw him. He didn't look the way I've ever seen him, but his hands still had the same wrinkles, the snazzy suit he had his picture taken in was still the same, his scruffy face had been shaven, and his white hair had been combed. I think he would've been satisfied. The night was difficult, mostly because emotions were up and down, all around, with everyone. Some people know how to celebrate a loved one's life. Some people only know how to mourn. Some people can do both, but it never seems to be in tune with what you're feeling. I don't know what I was doing or how I was acting. I can't remember that much. I remember needing a lot of quiet time, and the room with Granddaddy was the only quiet space around. I kept looking at him thinking I saw his chest rise and fall, or that he was gonna sit up and say "Nevermind!" On the other hand, I knew he wasn't in that body anymore. As much as I wish I could see his bright, ocean blue eyes again, I know that's why I love photography and capturing moments as much as I do.. I'll have photographs for as long as I'm around. I know as soon as his heart stopped beating, he was out of our level and into, as my mom said, the "spaces in between." He is in each, individual family member. Each friend he made over the 87 years on this earth. In each stranger he initiated conversation with. He was a light in all of our lives, a confidant, a teacher, a dad, a granddaddy, a great-granddaddy, a husband, someone to just honestly trust, a friend.. I am so fucking proud to say he was my grandpa, and pretty much my dad.
Granddaddy had this mouse trick he would do with his hankerchief. He'd roll it up to look like a white mouse, put it between his hands, and somehow make it look like it was jumping out at us. He and my mama helped teach me how to ride a bike. I told my mom to "shut up" one time in front of him, and he chased me around the house telling me, "You don't talk to your mom like that!" He got me my first cd player. He paid for me to go back to school and live in Plano for 18 months. He had four daughters, who in turn had seven children, collectively.. all of whom he has provided for, financially and emotionally. He paid for me to visit Germany in junior high. He helped me memorize fossils in my Geology course last year. He used to rub his scruffy face against us and scratch our faces. He wore Dickie's overalls to work in the yard, and was so meticulous about which direction his grass was mowed. I only saw him tear up once, and that was at Chigger's funeral. He loved my mom and stuck up for her when no one else in this family did. He hated his first name. I gained a lot of weight one year, and asked me "Are you pregnant?" I think I was 17, haha. He always paid for meals when he took the family out to dinner. He used to take us to Ranchland Hills Country Club every Sunday and treat us to the best mashed potatoes and a table full of whatever dessert we wanted. He had a blue chair that he'd sit in and crack pecans and watch golf for hours. I didn't know he was a geologist until a few years ago, even after I became interested in it. He used to take us to the community concerts in the MHS auditorium. He loved sweets, egg nog, and tapioca.. maybe that's where I get it. He loved writing our relatives in Germany, and spent hours coming up with the perfectly written letters, lots with words I'd never even heard of. He gave me some of his maps from the 1970's he used to find oil in and around the permian basin. He was a member of the OSS. He had the BEST smelling tobacco I've ever come across. Him and his pipes, everywhere, always together. We couldn't go anywhere in Midland without someone walking up and saying hi to him. He had a huge collection of hats.. it was rare you saw him without one. He had a huge folder of recipes he collected, and made the absolute best hatch green chile quiche. He absolutely hated my tattoos. He drove my sister and me to Midland Christian, and would give us those pastel-colored mint chocolates. He really was like a dad to Mindy and me. Always right next door, two minutes away if we ever needed him. I know getting this degree is gonna be frustrating and a lot of work, but education was one of THE most important things to him. I've gotta do it.
Saturday night, we went through some of his old hats.
I don't think there's a moment any of us are gonna walk through our day-to-day activities, and not feel a piece of something he contributed to our lives. Meredith Russell Stipp, Granddaddy, Russ, Dad.. the best man I've ever known in my 24 years, and I don't think anyone will ever come close to comparing.
He had been sick for about two months. It seemed to me like it came out of nowhere. For at least fifty years prior, he had made the trip to his office in downtown Midland, up a flight of stairs that I counted once to be.. well hell.. at least 15, and worked full days. He was always the strongest one. So when he was diagnosed with Pneumonia/Staph infection on top of COPD, it sorta took me by surprise. He admitted himself to the hospital, agreed to treatment, and ended up getting weaker and unable to take care of himself. Over the course of these two months, he transferred to hospice, and then Manor Park, and then ended up in the CCU. Granddaddy took pride in his intellect and ability to care for himself through all of the achievements and disappointments in life, so this was a tough time for him. The time came when he could either have surgery to remove the blockage in his lungs, or he would probably die. The surgery was done, and the only way to help him heal properly was to heavily sedate him, and insert a feeding tube. I could handle the hospital, and seeing him do his breathing treatments, and being poked and prodded with IVs a few times a week.. but the feeding tube was pretty rough. Seeing him able to raise his eyebrows and move his hands was a little promising, and I tried to remember every second of those movements. It seems a little stupid now, but I stared at him trying to remember his facial features, every sun spot, wrinkle, and white hair on his face and head.
The second day I went up with my mom to visit him, his hands were more swollen from all the fluids that his kidney wasn't filtering, and they had him under more sedation than the day before. Even his eyes weren't moving under his eyelids. I fixed his hair and gently squeezed his hand. He had bad bruises and blood from the nurses trying to insert an IV anywhere they could. His skin and blood were so thin from taking Coumadin for years. They kept telling me they know when he's too hot or cold, when he's uncomfortable, etc. I still don't think so. Science and numbers can tell you some things, but one's level of comfort is not told from those fucking screens. I felt so helpless.. probably more so than him. He didn't deserve to have his life ended in that way. I was told he always thought he was going to go to sleep one night and never wake up, or have a heart attack and that would be it. I think our entire family wishes he could've had his way.
So the night came when my mom called me and said he was going into renal failure. I'm completely ignorant when it comes to medicine and all the shit you pay doctors and nurses to know, but I've seen enough episodes of House and Grey's Anatomy (don't judge me) to know that is a turning point. The next day, it was a beautiful 70 degrees outside. Finally, I felt the energy to get out and be productive. Instead, I found myself crying too hard to leave, so I sat in my room hanging up blank canvases .. and posters I've stolen from ex-boyfriends, who could never appreciate them anyway. My phone rang, my mom's name came up on the caller ID, I took a deep breath, and answered. He had "passed on". It had been "his time". Does anyone else hate hearing that? I'm not religious, so someone telling me "God took him back because it was his time", or "he's up in Heaven now where he wanted to be", or anything else related to such.. kind of peeves me. Granddaddy wasn't necessarily religious either, so all I have to do is kind of laugh. I know it's one's own way of dealing with that news, and perhaps I'm being a drama mama about it, it just isn't EVER want I want to hear. I hung up, turned the music up, cried, and continued hanging my art.
It's Friday and we're on our way to Midland. I always thought it was kind of required to have a funeral.. how dumb am I. Where do you have a funeral if you don't want it in a church? Well, who knows, but Granddaddy opted out of one altogether. Instead, his viewing was that evening, and a "graveside service" was to be held Saturday. We got into town, changed into appropriate attire, and headed up there to set up his frames we put together. Someone had already set up a memorabilia table. His army hat/patch/picture, some core samples that were made to be paperweights, a pair of his reading glasses, the family photo book Mindy and I had put together for everyone for Christmas, and a bunch of other stuff that just screamed Russell Stipp. I signed the guest book, and headed into the room with his casket. I went to Bo's and Chigger's funerals, so it wasn't a big surprise.. but I guess since I've always been closer with Granddaddy.. it was a little more difficult. He didn't look the way he did the last time I saw him. He didn't look the way I've ever seen him, but his hands still had the same wrinkles, the snazzy suit he had his picture taken in was still the same, his scruffy face had been shaven, and his white hair had been combed. I think he would've been satisfied. The night was difficult, mostly because emotions were up and down, all around, with everyone. Some people know how to celebrate a loved one's life. Some people only know how to mourn. Some people can do both, but it never seems to be in tune with what you're feeling. I don't know what I was doing or how I was acting. I can't remember that much. I remember needing a lot of quiet time, and the room with Granddaddy was the only quiet space around. I kept looking at him thinking I saw his chest rise and fall, or that he was gonna sit up and say "Nevermind!" On the other hand, I knew he wasn't in that body anymore. As much as I wish I could see his bright, ocean blue eyes again, I know that's why I love photography and capturing moments as much as I do.. I'll have photographs for as long as I'm around. I know as soon as his heart stopped beating, he was out of our level and into, as my mom said, the "spaces in between." He is in each, individual family member. Each friend he made over the 87 years on this earth. In each stranger he initiated conversation with. He was a light in all of our lives, a confidant, a teacher, a dad, a granddaddy, a great-granddaddy, a husband, someone to just honestly trust, a friend.. I am so fucking proud to say he was my grandpa, and pretty much my dad.
Granddaddy had this mouse trick he would do with his hankerchief. He'd roll it up to look like a white mouse, put it between his hands, and somehow make it look like it was jumping out at us. He and my mama helped teach me how to ride a bike. I told my mom to "shut up" one time in front of him, and he chased me around the house telling me, "You don't talk to your mom like that!" He got me my first cd player. He paid for me to go back to school and live in Plano for 18 months. He had four daughters, who in turn had seven children, collectively.. all of whom he has provided for, financially and emotionally. He paid for me to visit Germany in junior high. He helped me memorize fossils in my Geology course last year. He used to rub his scruffy face against us and scratch our faces. He wore Dickie's overalls to work in the yard, and was so meticulous about which direction his grass was mowed. I only saw him tear up once, and that was at Chigger's funeral. He loved my mom and stuck up for her when no one else in this family did. He hated his first name. I gained a lot of weight one year, and asked me "Are you pregnant?" I think I was 17, haha. He always paid for meals when he took the family out to dinner. He used to take us to Ranchland Hills Country Club every Sunday and treat us to the best mashed potatoes and a table full of whatever dessert we wanted. He had a blue chair that he'd sit in and crack pecans and watch golf for hours. I didn't know he was a geologist until a few years ago, even after I became interested in it. He used to take us to the community concerts in the MHS auditorium. He loved sweets, egg nog, and tapioca.. maybe that's where I get it. He loved writing our relatives in Germany, and spent hours coming up with the perfectly written letters, lots with words I'd never even heard of. He gave me some of his maps from the 1970's he used to find oil in and around the permian basin. He was a member of the OSS. He had the BEST smelling tobacco I've ever come across. Him and his pipes, everywhere, always together. We couldn't go anywhere in Midland without someone walking up and saying hi to him. He had a huge collection of hats.. it was rare you saw him without one. He had a huge folder of recipes he collected, and made the absolute best hatch green chile quiche. He absolutely hated my tattoos. He drove my sister and me to Midland Christian, and would give us those pastel-colored mint chocolates. He really was like a dad to Mindy and me. Always right next door, two minutes away if we ever needed him. I know getting this degree is gonna be frustrating and a lot of work, but education was one of THE most important things to him. I've gotta do it.
Saturday night, we went through some of his old hats.
I don't think there's a moment any of us are gonna walk through our day-to-day activities, and not feel a piece of something he contributed to our lives. Meredith Russell Stipp, Granddaddy, Russ, Dad.. the best man I've ever known in my 24 years, and I don't think anyone will ever come close to comparing.