(no subject)
My grandfather passed away tonight.
Passed away. I've always thought that was a strange was to refer to death. As though anything about it is passive. Dying, like birth, is messy business. Hell, living is a messy business. But we come in to this world with help, and, hopefully, with love. And if were lucky, we go out the same. But its certainly not passive. It's work, its blood, and sweat, and tears.
This is the first grandparent that I've lost. I feel strange because I don't feel anything. He wasn't a well liked man. He didn't like anyone, not his children, not his grandchildren. At least thats how it seemed. My strongest and clearest memory of him is a whiskey fueled fistfight with my dad. I remember my brother crawling into bed with me and both of us listening and waiting for silence. I certainly don't feel happy about his death. It will be a difficult road for my Grandmother, who I do love. All the same, she's a 1950's wife, and her entire life revolved around him. What do you do with yourself then? When you've got nothing left to care for? She is the reason I feel I should drive down, spend a few days with her. My memories of her are warm, and this has not been easy for her. He's been dying for years now. Too stubborn even to die.
And my Dad. It's so strange to see your parents humanized. I can remember my first inklings of the humanization of my parents, realizing of my dad, "he's just a man. He makes mistakes and is fallible. He has feelings and sorrows." I wish I could have postphoned that realization. I hear too often about how this isn't how his life was supposed to turn out. How do I respond to that? My anger and bitterness wants to snap. "You've made your bed, now don't bitch about how you have to lie in it." All the same I feel compassion and sorrow for him. He's just a man, raised by a man who was just a man. That was the most difficult thing for me about my parent's divorce- realizing the fallibility of my parents as humans. It's difficult to blame either one of them. This is another experience like that. I remember when my great-grandmother was murdered. I was young, but old enough to know what was going on. It was so difficult to see the grief, the rage in my dad. We were all white hot. This won't be the same. This time it was expected, he got to say goodbye. It wasn't an easy goodbye, the old man was fueled by his rage and bigotry even to the very end. My dad's loneliness terrifies me, but he's got no one to blame but himself. We spoke one of the last nights he was there with my grandpa, and he told me of a moment of lucidity and kindness from his father. He spoke of it with tears in his voice and I felt so helpless. I don't know how to help or fix any of this.
So tonight I lit and candle for him and tried to remember just one good thing, and found I couldn't remember much at all.
Goodnight, Grandpa.
Passed away. I've always thought that was a strange was to refer to death. As though anything about it is passive. Dying, like birth, is messy business. Hell, living is a messy business. But we come in to this world with help, and, hopefully, with love. And if were lucky, we go out the same. But its certainly not passive. It's work, its blood, and sweat, and tears.
This is the first grandparent that I've lost. I feel strange because I don't feel anything. He wasn't a well liked man. He didn't like anyone, not his children, not his grandchildren. At least thats how it seemed. My strongest and clearest memory of him is a whiskey fueled fistfight with my dad. I remember my brother crawling into bed with me and both of us listening and waiting for silence. I certainly don't feel happy about his death. It will be a difficult road for my Grandmother, who I do love. All the same, she's a 1950's wife, and her entire life revolved around him. What do you do with yourself then? When you've got nothing left to care for? She is the reason I feel I should drive down, spend a few days with her. My memories of her are warm, and this has not been easy for her. He's been dying for years now. Too stubborn even to die.
And my Dad. It's so strange to see your parents humanized. I can remember my first inklings of the humanization of my parents, realizing of my dad, "he's just a man. He makes mistakes and is fallible. He has feelings and sorrows." I wish I could have postphoned that realization. I hear too often about how this isn't how his life was supposed to turn out. How do I respond to that? My anger and bitterness wants to snap. "You've made your bed, now don't bitch about how you have to lie in it." All the same I feel compassion and sorrow for him. He's just a man, raised by a man who was just a man. That was the most difficult thing for me about my parent's divorce- realizing the fallibility of my parents as humans. It's difficult to blame either one of them. This is another experience like that. I remember when my great-grandmother was murdered. I was young, but old enough to know what was going on. It was so difficult to see the grief, the rage in my dad. We were all white hot. This won't be the same. This time it was expected, he got to say goodbye. It wasn't an easy goodbye, the old man was fueled by his rage and bigotry even to the very end. My dad's loneliness terrifies me, but he's got no one to blame but himself. We spoke one of the last nights he was there with my grandpa, and he told me of a moment of lucidity and kindness from his father. He spoke of it with tears in his voice and I felt so helpless. I don't know how to help or fix any of this.
So tonight I lit and candle for him and tried to remember just one good thing, and found I couldn't remember much at all.
Goodnight, Grandpa.