Noticing the Hands in our Lives

Last weekend, we were in Virginia, visiting my (maternal) grandmother in the hospital. I won’t go into details, but if you read down further in this blog (see May the Road Rise Up to Meet You, from August 2008), you’ll know I lost my (maternal) grandfather last summer. In between then and now, my husband’s grandfather passed away, as well. So I guess you’d say we’ve had our share of loss over the past six months.

Anyway, my  grandmother is an important woman in my life who’s always been a strong and in charge kind of person. Through a bad series of events, the woman who just six months ago was a rock is now basically weak and struggling on her deathbed, and I’ve found I’m completely unprepared for it. It’s funny; the men seem to go in our family — we’ve come to accept that — but the women tend to hang around for a long time. Really, we’re supposed to be immortal, right? Come on, now… she’s only 84!!

So, seeing her declining so quickly, I just wanted to sit by her bedside, hold her hand, and take it all in. She wasn’t in a talkative mode, but I was pretty sure she enjoyed the company; the entire time I held her hand, she held on pretty tightly.

It was during one of those quiet moments, while I just sat holding her hand, looking at our hands grasped together, and feeling that unfamiliar connection, that I fully realized in a wave of emotion how much I love this woman, and how much a part of my life she’s been.

A flood of memories then filled my mind, not just of holding the hands of those who were important to me when they were on their way out — such as my grandfather, my father, my great-grandmother — but many others. When I thought about it, I realized that though I haven’t held hands with many, I could recall their hands in detail, even though I’d never consciously thought about it.

They were all beautiful… and unique.

Though you hear the saying, “The eyes are the window to the soul,” the hands… well, they tell the story. Rough and strong? Small and delicate? Petite but tough? Decisive and hard-working? Every set is marked from life in one way or the other, with the individual’s experience almost etched in like a tattoo.

While I sat there thinking about that, looking at both my grandmother’s and my hands together and feeling very close to her, I thought a lot about our relationship throughout my life. Though until my adult years we hadn’t really been a conversational pair with each other, she’s always had an important supportive role to me. She’s been my silent helper through times of trouble, whether emotionally, financially, or just because she was there (even when I didn’t realize it, at the time). Even later, when she became somewhat more open with discussion, there have been times when I’d touch on a sensitive subject, something with which I’d had problems, and she would voice her support with few words, or even a look — and though I’ve never felt comfortable relaying a lot of my petty details to her, it’s always felt like we’ve understood each other, anyway, and I could feel my connection to her.

I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I held her hand. And then I asked myself, why not? I hold my husband’s and children’s hands regularly. But why does everyone shy away from holding the hands of those they love, even when it’s not those two types of relationships (and sometimes not even those)? Is it because that’s too personal, and touches too much on emotion, which as adults, we’re not supposed to have?

She’s definitely been one of the helping hands in my life. So I guess I felt like it was time for me to be one for her, even if it was just to hold her hand while she’s fighting a declining battle for her life. This time, I wanted to be her support. All I could hope for was that she could somehow win this fight… or that if it was to be a lost battle, that it would end as quickly and painlessly as possible.

I love you, Grandma. Regardless of what happens, thank you for being a helping hand in my life.

May the Road Rise Up to Meet You…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

R.I.P. Anthony T. Gill 1921-2008

I was so blessed to be there when my grandfather passed away a few weeks ago! He’d been so frustrated and so trapped in his body with advanced Parkinson’s (and then at the end, lung cancer as well) — see my blog Please Take Him Soon, from November 2007 — that it was truly a gift not only to be able to see that face free of frustration and sadness after so long, but also to actually see the peace on his face right after he passed on, as he was such a special person to me!

As an adult, he told me many times of the fact that I had been the only baby in the family it seemed he was allowed to hold and nurture — all the women had otherwise taken the reins for all the others, and I could tell that it had been very special to him. So I guess I took great pleasure in being there when he went, because I always felt more bonded with him than with many others.

And now, I do miss him, and I guess I’ve just started to really reflect on my memories with him over the years. My sister, always the one wanting the pomp and circumstance of things, volunteered to do a eulogy, and has asked me to send her memories she can incorporate into her speech. I guess I’ve resisted that quite a bit, because my memories are very personal to me, and it’s hard to pull things out into bullets when the whole picture adds up to more than the sum of its parts. So I figured I’d write out the swirls of thought forming a picture in my head, and she can take what she needs, though I feel like it would be difficult to adequately and effectively incorporate this into someone else’s perspective.

Feeling isolated and lonely — a forgotten child in my family’s sea of deep complexities during a very, very serious period (again, see the earlier blog, listed above) – Grandpa was always the one who paid attention to me. My sister had tight bonds with my grandmother and great-grandmother, and my mother was busy being a single struggling mom in the ’70s and ’80s and not around a lot. And I had no siblings close in age to me (my sister was 6.5 years older). So I often felt l was just this added annoyance and a pain to everyone… except Grandpa.

He was a light in the grayness of many days of my childhood, and though I’m sure there were times when he just wanted to relax and unwind after a day/week at work, he never made me feel like I was an unwanted presence anytime I’d go upstairs to see him. He would always give me the big, wet “Grandpa smooch” and show interest in my day, or what was going on with me. He most always seemed cheerful in my presence, and often gave me the lift I guess I subconsciously needed.

He was a WONDERFUL storyteller, too! He loved history, and had been in WWII himself. Some of my most cherished childhood memories were at family gatherings, when I’d park myself by Grandpa and my (grand-)Uncle Tommy — who had been in WWII, as well — and in the fog created by a mixture of cigarette smoke and the smell of beer, listen to them talk about their war stories, and get into debates about which was more important/better/you name it — the Army or the Navy (as Grandpa had been in the Army and Uncle Tommy had been in the Navy). I LOVED those times! When Uncle Tommy passed away in the mid-’80s, Grandpa so missed their debates that while waiting for Uncle Tommy’s inurnment at Arlington Cemetary, I’ve been told countless times about how he’d take Uncle Tommy’s ashes out and talk to him (as he and my grandmother were keeping the ashes for my aunt during that period).

History was definitely not my favorite subject in school, but Grandpa made it come alive for me. There were many times I would go up to see him just to get some clarification on something, to help me with my homework, studies, a project, or just about anything. I recall him spending several hours once explaining the Truman Airlift to me, because I had to cover it for a report… and I was so enthralled in his account that I barely wrote notes, but was easily able to recall almost everything he told me afterwards, and cited him as a historical resource in my paper. I think he missed his calling as some sort of history teacher, because I would’ve done much better in the subject at school with a teacher like him!

He patiently tolerated me practicing the piano downstairs and would regularly listen to my flute progress, as well…. while repeatedly reminding me that he played the fife long ago, himself. He also had a penchant for music, too — another bond I had with him — and loved when he took up the concertina and accordion. Proud of his Irish heritage, he would joke about one day learning the bagpipes… though I’m sure it was my grandmother who steered him clear of that!

At larger family gatherings, such as anniversaries, landmark birthdays, and weddings, Grandpa often seemed to be the life of the party. There are more than several occasions I remember Grandpa leading the Conga line on the dance floor, and dancing with me, too. He was great at telling humorous stories  and jokes, as well, and naturally attracted people to him in those settings because of the sparkle in his eye and smirk on his face.

I know I didn’t see him much during my mid-teen years — as is typical, I guess — but after I’d moved out of the house and been on my own for awhile, I forged a whole new relationship with my grandparents. It was then that I was able to sit and listen to Grandpa talk about our Irish heritage, and he would tell me about the historical research he’d done on his family over in Ireland. In fact, stored in the depths of the crawlspace of my house is a booklet of information he sent me — unsolicited – years ago, after I’d gotten married and settled down, which contained a detailed account of what he’d found… which I cherish.

As an adult, I became more interested in the history of things — or should I say the mystery of things — and I would still love to puzzle with Grandpa about a wide variety of subjects, from random facts of little importance to the historical vs. Biblical findings of the life and times of Jesus. He loved having someone with whom to puzzle over such things — it was like going on an exploration together – and I quickly learned that I shouldn’t debate with him unless I had researched and was well prepared to go to battle! These kind of conversations always drove me to learn more, and I thank him for spurring me on to look at the actual history and related accounts behind any story.

I also learned of his quirks and biases as well. First of all, he was very biased in terms of being Irish. I found out there had been quite a few family scuffles over the years regarding his view of the non-Irish ethnic background of someone or the other. However, I myself never really noticed that until I was dating my husband, and I’d brought him for a weekend to meet the family. Scott already had a bonus in Grandpa’s book — he’d heard that Scott was in the Navy — and at that point, I’m sure he’d been chomping at the bit to talk military for about 7 years (since it had been that long since Uncle Tommy had died). So, the next all-important question was presented in this not-as-subtle-as-he-thought way:

“So, Scott, what’s your last name?”

I remember laughing abruptly, and Grandpa looked at me all wide-eyed, as if he didn’t understand why I was laughing. Before Scott answered, I remember cutting in and saying, “Coulter, Grandpa… is that Irish enough for you?” Though he denied his intention for a moment, I quickly saw that mischievious sparkle in his eyes, and then he laughed too, acknowledging his exposure. Once that was settled, he progressed right into asking a million questions about his experience in the Navy… and that was the end of that!

Another quirk of my grandfather that always caused me to laugh — of course, after everything was deemed OK – was the fact that he was a bona fide clutz. He was constantly hurting himself due to various accidents! I remember him breaking his foot once when falling off a ladder while working on an A/C wall unit in the house I grew up in. He’d trip, fall, bang into things, you name it… that was just Grandpa. Personally, I think it was directly related to the fact that he was always thinking, thinking, thinking about some other topic or subject instead of focusing on the matter at hand. One time, when I was 16, I remember him driving me to my part-time job at a nearby mall, and he got so involved in a conversation with me that he blew right through 3 or 4 stop signs and red lights on the way, causing me to wonder if I was going to arrive there in one piece! When I said something (after about the 2nd stop sign he missed), he just laughed it off in his impish way and said something along the lines of, “Did I? Well, it doesn’t matter. There wasn’t anything coming the other way, anyway.”

Shortly after we’d moved to Virginia, my grandparents and grand-aunt followed suit, sold their houses and moved to an apartment right up the block from us. At that point, it had been 9 years since I’d lived in the same house and 8 years since I’d lived any closer to my immediate family than  a 3.5-hour drive, so I admit it was great to have them a long walk away. I had my first child right after they moved down; shortly after getting home from the hospital, I brought her to their apartment and, remembering how he’d gushed about being able to hold me as a baby, went straight to Grandpa and handed her to him. How stiff he was, but how happy! And again, I heard him recount how I’d been the first baby he’d been “allowed” to hold, now with the next generation in his arms. I have a picture from not too long after, when my sister and her family were visiting, when we took a picture of Grandma and Grandpa with all of the 5 of them. My oldest is in his arms, and the picture just caught the right moment as he was looking down at the baby, with that same combination of stiffness/nervousness and happiness that I remember.

I was sad to have to move away about 4 months later, because I’d actually enjoyed being close to them again. However, we were still within a 3.5-hour drive, so we visited as frequently as we could, and my daughters adored him! He would let them sit on his lap and share his snacks with him, whether or not we approved. Before the Parkinson’s set in too badly, he taught the girls how to play Mario Brothers on Nintendo, and that was a joy and the cause of many bouts of laughter in itself! He would heave his body back and forth with the controls, so much that one time my mother called to let me know he’d had quite an accident and banged his head because he’d been playing the game, got so excited playing it, and missed the edge of the bed he’d been sitting on when jumping up and down and landed on the floor, hitting the edge of a desk or table on the way (again, back to the clutz factor…).

As the Parkinson’s took hold of him, and his mobility and communication skills declined more and more, I would sit with patience while he struggled to get the words out, wanting so badly to relive the way we’d discussed things years before. That was painful for me, but I hung on to it, knowing it wouldn’t be a very long time until I wouldn’t have the luxury of his voice at all anymore. Though he couldn’t move to play with the girls, I could see his delight in them by the look in his eyes when we paid a visit. However, he still had a sense of humor, and I always found a way to laugh with him that came easily.

Though we knew his time was short, when the time came, he actually dove downhill very quickly. About a week before he died, my mother called to let me know he’d basically been confined to his bed, he’d stopped eating, and they didn’t think it would be long. I toiled over whether or not to go and make one final visit, because I knew how bad he looked, and that it really wasn’t him that I would see — especially when I knew he’d become skeletal and somewhat comatose and unaware.

Unfortunately, the commitments of business ownership had prevented me from visiting since February — on my birthday — and I sort of liked the idea of that visit being my last one with Grandpa. Because, regardless of how terrible he looked or felt or how little he could communicate in discussion, he was able to sing “Happy Birthday” to me almost perfectly, without a stutter, hesitation, or hiccup. And because of that, he must’ve sang it to me at least a half dozen times that day — it became sort of a joke between us, because every once in awhile, I’d lean towards him and say, “Grandpa, I’m feeling sort of unloved at the moment. I think I need someone to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me right about now…” which would cause him to burst into another robust round. (Today I wish I would’ve recorded it on my cell phone. I enjoyed myself so much that day that I didn’t even think of it until afterwards…. what a great way to remember him!)

In the end, I decided to go, but would wait until that Saturday afternoon to make the trip. My sister made it down from NY earlier in the week, and there was a really good chance he wouldn’t make it through until I made it there. I was OK with that; again, the last time I’d seen him, I’d told him I loved him, and had really enjoyed seeing him. Plus, regardless of not having it recorded, I can still hear him singing “Happy Birthday” in my head, and I won’t forget it anytime soon.

But I went, and he was still hanging on. I looked at him there, in the bed, a shriveled up shadow of the grandfather I’ve loved so much since I was a little girl, held his hand, looked in his glazed over and half open eyes, told him I loved him, and that the girls loved him, and kissed him… and knew that deep down, I really had wanted to see him one more time, and was glad I had made it.

That next morning, he died. I’d literally stepped down to my grand-aunt’s apartment down the hall to tell her where things were, and he died about 2 minutes later. And when I went back in afterwards to say goodbye, it was all summed up his face. Peace and freedom, at last.

Now, I remember when I was somewhere around 17 or 18, and a very good friend of mine lost her grandmother, who was “off-the-boat” Irish. I went to the funeral, and marveled at the party-like atmosphere of the family’s get-together afterwards. I remember recounting it to Grandpa, who told me that was the way the Irish did it — that it was time to celebrate the life of the person who’d just passed on instead of mourning them. In fact, he told me, “…when I die, that’s what I want… sit me up in the corner, put a beer in my hand, and have a big party!” And I know he said it a multitude of times throughout the years, as well. And, though it is his turn for the pomp and circumstance of the funeral at Arlington Cemetary at the end of the month, I’m sure most in the family will remember him that way, and though we won’t be able to prop him up in a corner, I know for sure I will have a beer in his honor after he’s put to rest.

I’m sure somewhere he and Uncle Tommy are together again, already embroiled in the next Big Debate.

Rest in peace, Grandpa. You will always be in my heart, in my joy, and in my humor. And thank you.

Please Take Him Soon

My grandfather, aged 86 (and, I might add, one of my favorite people in the world), has advanced Parkinson’s Disease.

Over the past 6 years, I’ve watched him disintegrate rapidly. Always super intelligent (and quite the history buff), a little eccentric, and very healthy, it’s been painful for me to watch this. Because the Parkinson’s has taken over his body, and what’s left of him is that man trapped inside a shell that won’t let him connect with the outside world anymore. I can see his mind still working, but it’s literally painful for him to get any words out. He can’t write anymore. He won’t walk anymore. My grandmother (bless her) has tried giving him pads, magnetic letters, you name it, but he’s stubborn, and won’t use them. So, it can take several minutes for him to get one sentence out, even though that clear look in his eyes tells me that there’s a lot still going on in there.

It’s too painful for tears.

All my life, he’s been a vibrant, fun, interesting Irishman who loved to be the life of the party. When I was growing up, he was the only man permanently in our household, with five females (my grandmother, my maternal great grandmother, my mother, my sister, and me). Hoo hah! And with all the seriousness in the house — there wasn’t a lot of humor, I recall — he was always a breath of fresh air. I loved going upstairs to see Grandpa, especially when I had a question about history, because though it was by far my least favorite subject in school, he made it come alive for me. And at the family get togethers, when he and my Uncle Tommy (who’s already passed) would talk about WWII and argue about which was better, the US Navy or the US Army (Uncle Tommy – Navy, Grandpa – Army), I would just sit and listen, because they were so fun to listen to!

I was never close with my grandmother when I was young — she really didn’t talk very much, and when she did, it was mostly to my sister – and my mother wasn’t around very often (a side effect of being a single parent in the ‘70-’80s). My sister is 6.5 years older than me, so she wasn’t much to talk to until we were both adults, and my great grandmother died in 1980, when I was 11. So Grandpa was all that was left. Though he always seemed a little dreamy, a little distant, he was always fun and pleasant to talk to when I was a kid. He seemed genuinely interested in me and what I did.

And though, in adult life, my relationships with everyone else have changed, matured, and vastly improved, I’ve still loved talking to Grandpa. He’s always been so interesting! And almost never sick, until he had to get heart bypass surgery in the late ’90s. Then it seemed to slip downhill from there. He fell on the ice in wintertime and got a hematoma in his head; the doctors think he might have had a ministroke that went undetected, and soon around then is when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

I will admit he’s quite the stubborn coot! He refused physical therapy in the beginning, which I think started a downward spiral — because he wasn’t using his limbs, but favoring them, so his disability got worse, and so on, and so forth. No matter. Because in the past six years, I’ve watched him go from driving to not, to using a cane, to using a walker, to using a wheelchair, and now, to basically never leaving the recliner chair in his livingroom. And that wouldn’t be SO bad, if he could — would — communicate! My grandmother, at 82, is his main caregiver, and is constantly pulling something in her back, her foot, or other parts because she’s lifting him when he falls, and that’s pretty often. She hasn’t qualified for Medicare-sponsored help to come in, and she refuses to put him in a home (because Lord knows, the Home would take everything they have to put him in there).  My mother lives nearby to help when she can, but still. To my understanding, most of the time, he doesn’t even leave the chair to go to the bathroom anymore — he uses a Texas catheter most of the time, and maybe gets out of the chair once a day.

I was just there this past weekend, and every time I see him, it’s more and more painful. He’s so frustrated because I know those lucid thoughts are still there, yet in his eyes, I see a little boy, scared because somewhere in there he knows he’s not long for this world, and is terrified. At this point, I wonder why. I know he so loves my grandmother — one of the only thing that makes him smile anymore is when he looks at old pictures of them or tries to talk about old stories from when they were younger — and they’ve essentially been together and in each other’s lives for something like 65+ years (save a relatively short period in there when my grandmother divorced him, married someone else, then divorced the other guy and married him again). But no matter how attached he is to her (and she to him, don’t get me wrong), how good is it when he’s just a shell of the man he was, needing 24/7 care, and she’s miserable and terrified at the same time – trapped, as well? SHE barely ever leaves the house, and when she does, she’s in a rush to get back, because she’s afraid of something happening when she’s out. She’s hired someone to tend to him for a few hours once a week, so my mother can take her and my great aunt out food shopping. But, from outside eyes, they’re both miserable. And it’s the most painful kind of misery. Because they’re both afraid of losing each other, yet they’ve already lost each other and refuse to see it. And he’s cranky and sometimes downright mean and inconsiderate to her, and she’s sometime mean and resentful right back to him.

So today, in my solitude while I was working in the greenhouses, I prayed – to God, to the universe, to our spirit guides and to all that help us — to please, please, PLEASE take him very soon. Because I love him — I love both of them — and it’s like they’re both in hell, when they love each other so much. And we all love them. But I don’t want him — them — to be in pain anymore. I want him to be able to let go, and realize that moving on is a beautiful thing — that he will be released of all of his woes, and that he will be whole in spirit again. And even if my grandmother lived for another 20 years, it’s nothing — a speck on a speck of time — before they will be able to be together again.

He needs to know it’s OK to let go. And go.

So I hope *they’re* going to help him over, and soon. Because I think he’s in hell now. And so is she. And no one deserves that.

Is that wrong, for me to feel that way? I don’t think so; I told my father, when he was barely lucid and just completely wasted away from the cancer, that we loved him, but it was OK for him to go. My sister did the same; he died within a week after those conversations. I wouldn’t be able to say that now, because I think my grandmother would kill me if I did.

But I can pray for it.

I love you, Grandpa, and know that you will always be with me, even when you are tired of the constraints of your body’s prison cell that it has become. And I hope you free yourself of it soon.