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I was his favorite.
I know this because he told me every time I saw him. It was the same ritual every time. I'd say "Hi, Papa", and as he hugged me, he'd whisper in my ear "You're my favorite". I was his favorite because I was the one who made him a grandfather. Of course, he did the same thing to all of us. We'd all watch each other get told the same thing. We were all his favorite grandkids, for one reason or another. But I knew that he meant it most when he said it to me.
My grandfather was amazing. Kind, and giving, and humble. He served on the Melrose Fire Department for 32 years. I asked him once why he never got promoted up the chain, and he told me he didn't want to take the tests. But really, Papa just enjoyed being a working man. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay. He held about a million jobs through his life, always more concerned with doing a good job and providing a service to someone than about his title. Whether it was putting out fires, delivering flowers, or bagging groceries, he always took jobs that made other people's lives easier. And he got to flirt while he did them, which was a plus for him.
Papa was a charmer, for sure. Everyone in town knew him, and everyone in town loved him. I had always known this, but it was driven home the day of his wake. From the minute the doors opened, the people came. The line was out the door all night. Little old ladies nearly passed out from waiting so long. The Mayor himself came, and stood in line despite my attempts to get him to cut. "He was a good guy. I don't know what we'll do without him." All sorts of people introduced themselves to me and told me stories about the time he helped them out of a jam, or about the time he got into one with them. But all I could think about was being in his house as a kid, playing cards, listening to him sing along with the Clancy Brothers, praying the rosary with Nana, and snapping his suspenders and patting his belly as he quizzed me on the names of the Seven Dwarves. I always forgot poor Bashful. But I'll never forget him again.
My grandfather died like he lived. Honorably, and without a lot of fuss. He knew what had to be done, and he did it with no complaints. I was lucky enough to be in the hospital room with him when the doctor came in with the nurse and the social worker to tell him that he wasn't going to get better. That what they thought was pneumonia, or maybe congestive heart failure, was really pulmonary fibrosis. His lungs were quickly becoming useless to him, and it wouldn't be long before he wouldn't be able to breathe on his own. I watched his face as he absorbed the news. He sat quietly for a minute, and then nodded and said "Okay then." The doctor asked him whether he'd want to be on a ventilator. He said no. "I'm 83 years old. I've lived a good life, and I'm good with God." That was a Monday. On Thursday, he was moved to a hospice facility. The ride there took all he had left. He needed so much medicine to not be in pain that he was asleep when I got there. My aunts and uncles, my dad and my sister all gathered to say goodbye. I sat with him, held his hand and watched him breathe, jumping every time he paused for too long. Eventually, the nurse told us to go home. His decline had slowed, and we needed rest. In reality, he was just faking us out. Trying to get rid of us so he could go quietly, without upsetting us any more than was necessary.
I know there's a lot I don't know about my grandfather. Stories in which he was as much the villain as he was the hero. He was human, after all. But because he was my grandfather, I don't have to hear those stories. I only have to know that I loved him more than anything in the world, and that I was his favorite.
I miss you, Papa.
I know this because he told me every time I saw him. It was the same ritual every time. I'd say "Hi, Papa", and as he hugged me, he'd whisper in my ear "You're my favorite". I was his favorite because I was the one who made him a grandfather. Of course, he did the same thing to all of us. We'd all watch each other get told the same thing. We were all his favorite grandkids, for one reason or another. But I knew that he meant it most when he said it to me.
My grandfather was amazing. Kind, and giving, and humble. He served on the Melrose Fire Department for 32 years. I asked him once why he never got promoted up the chain, and he told me he didn't want to take the tests. But really, Papa just enjoyed being a working man. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay. He held about a million jobs through his life, always more concerned with doing a good job and providing a service to someone than about his title. Whether it was putting out fires, delivering flowers, or bagging groceries, he always took jobs that made other people's lives easier. And he got to flirt while he did them, which was a plus for him.
Papa was a charmer, for sure. Everyone in town knew him, and everyone in town loved him. I had always known this, but it was driven home the day of his wake. From the minute the doors opened, the people came. The line was out the door all night. Little old ladies nearly passed out from waiting so long. The Mayor himself came, and stood in line despite my attempts to get him to cut. "He was a good guy. I don't know what we'll do without him." All sorts of people introduced themselves to me and told me stories about the time he helped them out of a jam, or about the time he got into one with them. But all I could think about was being in his house as a kid, playing cards, listening to him sing along with the Clancy Brothers, praying the rosary with Nana, and snapping his suspenders and patting his belly as he quizzed me on the names of the Seven Dwarves. I always forgot poor Bashful. But I'll never forget him again.
My grandfather died like he lived. Honorably, and without a lot of fuss. He knew what had to be done, and he did it with no complaints. I was lucky enough to be in the hospital room with him when the doctor came in with the nurse and the social worker to tell him that he wasn't going to get better. That what they thought was pneumonia, or maybe congestive heart failure, was really pulmonary fibrosis. His lungs were quickly becoming useless to him, and it wouldn't be long before he wouldn't be able to breathe on his own. I watched his face as he absorbed the news. He sat quietly for a minute, and then nodded and said "Okay then." The doctor asked him whether he'd want to be on a ventilator. He said no. "I'm 83 years old. I've lived a good life, and I'm good with God." That was a Monday. On Thursday, he was moved to a hospice facility. The ride there took all he had left. He needed so much medicine to not be in pain that he was asleep when I got there. My aunts and uncles, my dad and my sister all gathered to say goodbye. I sat with him, held his hand and watched him breathe, jumping every time he paused for too long. Eventually, the nurse told us to go home. His decline had slowed, and we needed rest. In reality, he was just faking us out. Trying to get rid of us so he could go quietly, without upsetting us any more than was necessary.
I know there's a lot I don't know about my grandfather. Stories in which he was as much the villain as he was the hero. He was human, after all. But because he was my grandfather, I don't have to hear those stories. I only have to know that I loved him more than anything in the world, and that I was his favorite.
I miss you, Papa.
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