all things false fall from the dead
In my grandparent's condo is a framed set of photographs that were taken over time lapse showing a building being imploded. The caption says it's the "Kokomo Gas Tower" and the date it was imploded.
My grandfather's death this past Friday at three in the morning seemed like something my family could prepare for. The charges were set far in advance. He was 81 years old, and had been struggling between life and death in hospice care in his home for a month. But on Friday morning, the charges went off, and everything crumbled, including all our preparedness, all my rationalizations that it would be okay.
Yesterday was the funeral for my grandfather. His name was Howard, which means guardian of the home. This turned out to be an auspicious name. My dad said that my grandfather was the greatest provider he'd ever known, that growing up he never wanted for anything.
Originally, the funeral itself was to be a simple gathering. At the end of his life, Howard changed his mind and asked for a traditional viewing. As soon as I walked into the parlor and saw the casket, and grandpa within looking like he was just asleep and would get up in a minute, asking us questions in his booming voice; I knew the next few hours were going to be extremely hard.
My dad withdraws from human emotions and won't let anyone see them. He doesn't like people to see him cry. I have only seen him cry twice in my life; once when my great-grandfather died and once when my mom kicked him out of our house. Even then it was abrupt, as if he had the sadness quickly extracted like a tooth and then the novacaine kicked in. He didn't cry yesterday, and I hadn't expected him to. I spoke to Joyce, the reverend for the ceremony, who told me my dad intimidated her. I reassured her that dad didn't mean to do this, but it was his way of dealing with this situation.
As the day went on I found myself taking cues from dad, as I had since Friday, steeling myself against feeling anything about the day. I didn't want anyone to see my tears, which is how things are done as a daughter of my father. I had to sneak into the bathroom once to let a few escape, then thought I'd be okay the rest of the day.
As I have experienced in the past, letting myself build my grief up inside in this way only means that it comes out all the more uncontrollably later and at the strangest times. I watched the 21-man salute, feeling retched but attempting to control myself. The 21-man salute was done as my grandpa had served in WWII, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars sent a detail to honor my grandfather's service. Each member of the detail walked up to the casket and very slowly and dramatically in the backlight of the funeral parlor's lamps saluted my grandfather and took off his hat, then walked away in solemnity. This was very dramatic and stirring to watch. They unfolded and then re-folded an American flag, and then presented it my grandmother. Someone in the chairs whispered "I've never seen that done before."
Then Joyce spoke, and we listened as she related some of the memories from my grandfather's life; meeting my grandfather at a scrap drive for the WWII effort, buying a lakehouse and pontoon in northern Indiana and the enjoyment my family received from it, the time I had been crying as a child and grandpa popped his dentures out at me, and I laughed so hard I stopped crying.
I had always thought that my dad's unwillingness to show emotion came from his parents, and the family they came from. I was wrong; it is his way of doing things. As I watched my dad's sister and her family coping together, so easily and without shame, I wished my dad, brother and I could be the same.
I learned from my grandfather in his death that family is too important to build a wall around yourself and ignore your emotions about them, and to support each other. There is a way to be well-adjusted to life and to live it well for 81 years with no regrets, as my grandfather did. Despite the faults he thought he had, the sins he brought to Reverend Joyce and struggled with, he found great peace, and said many times that he had led a full and satisfied life because of his family. That is worth honoring.
My grandfather's death this past Friday at three in the morning seemed like something my family could prepare for. The charges were set far in advance. He was 81 years old, and had been struggling between life and death in hospice care in his home for a month. But on Friday morning, the charges went off, and everything crumbled, including all our preparedness, all my rationalizations that it would be okay.
Yesterday was the funeral for my grandfather. His name was Howard, which means guardian of the home. This turned out to be an auspicious name. My dad said that my grandfather was the greatest provider he'd ever known, that growing up he never wanted for anything.
Originally, the funeral itself was to be a simple gathering. At the end of his life, Howard changed his mind and asked for a traditional viewing. As soon as I walked into the parlor and saw the casket, and grandpa within looking like he was just asleep and would get up in a minute, asking us questions in his booming voice; I knew the next few hours were going to be extremely hard.
My dad withdraws from human emotions and won't let anyone see them. He doesn't like people to see him cry. I have only seen him cry twice in my life; once when my great-grandfather died and once when my mom kicked him out of our house. Even then it was abrupt, as if he had the sadness quickly extracted like a tooth and then the novacaine kicked in. He didn't cry yesterday, and I hadn't expected him to. I spoke to Joyce, the reverend for the ceremony, who told me my dad intimidated her. I reassured her that dad didn't mean to do this, but it was his way of dealing with this situation.
As the day went on I found myself taking cues from dad, as I had since Friday, steeling myself against feeling anything about the day. I didn't want anyone to see my tears, which is how things are done as a daughter of my father. I had to sneak into the bathroom once to let a few escape, then thought I'd be okay the rest of the day.
As I have experienced in the past, letting myself build my grief up inside in this way only means that it comes out all the more uncontrollably later and at the strangest times. I watched the 21-man salute, feeling retched but attempting to control myself. The 21-man salute was done as my grandpa had served in WWII, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars sent a detail to honor my grandfather's service. Each member of the detail walked up to the casket and very slowly and dramatically in the backlight of the funeral parlor's lamps saluted my grandfather and took off his hat, then walked away in solemnity. This was very dramatic and stirring to watch. They unfolded and then re-folded an American flag, and then presented it my grandmother. Someone in the chairs whispered "I've never seen that done before."
Then Joyce spoke, and we listened as she related some of the memories from my grandfather's life; meeting my grandfather at a scrap drive for the WWII effort, buying a lakehouse and pontoon in northern Indiana and the enjoyment my family received from it, the time I had been crying as a child and grandpa popped his dentures out at me, and I laughed so hard I stopped crying.
I had always thought that my dad's unwillingness to show emotion came from his parents, and the family they came from. I was wrong; it is his way of doing things. As I watched my dad's sister and her family coping together, so easily and without shame, I wished my dad, brother and I could be the same.
I learned from my grandfather in his death that family is too important to build a wall around yourself and ignore your emotions about them, and to support each other. There is a way to be well-adjusted to life and to live it well for 81 years with no regrets, as my grandfather did. Despite the faults he thought he had, the sins he brought to Reverend Joyce and struggled with, he found great peace, and said many times that he had led a full and satisfied life because of his family. That is worth honoring.