There were so many people at my high school graduation party that June. I remember feeling surprised by how many there were, family members, friends, neighbors. I had the same feeling at my sixteenth birthday party. I didn’t understand why all those people were there to celebrate something I found so insignificant. I understand, now, as a parent, that the people weren’t just celebrating ME, they were celebrating for my parents. She made it this far. She’s doing okay.
That’s a pretty big deal.
I get that, now.
Everyone came, even my grandfather, who was ill, dying of prostate cancer at the time, but he was still doing okay, a little tired, a little weak, but he still had his same good-natured self, his dry, slightly strange, sense of humor. He was always a good looking man, and even then as an old grandpa, I admired (and patted) his buzzed-cut hair and his square jaw, that always held a smirk. He was a strong man, a sports-watching, billiard playing, beer drinking man. He was sarcastic, silly, and usually quiet, though it might be because he just couldn’t get in a word edgewise, being married to my Grandma. He was caring. He loved us all so much, and he was never afraid to show it.
That party was the last time he made it to our house.
By Thanksgiving, at his house, he was so thin that at one point when he stood up at the dinner table, his pants fell off, and his Depends undies, with his thin little thighs poking out, were exposed. Oh, how we LAUGHED, because that is what we do, and that is how he was. And it was so funny, even while it was so sad.
When he knew it was the end, he wanted all of his children around him. He could not speak, with his mouth, even though he could still speak with his eyes. I love you, they said. You crazy suckers, they added, with a wink, that could no longer physically occur, but that was still there, in a twinkling sort of sense. And he waited, an extra day even, for one of his children to fly in from out of the country, and once we were all there, we circled him, hands held together, in prayer, and said goodbye together. And then he was gone. If a death can be beautiful, then this was that death.
And even though I didn’t totally get it at the time, a comment my aunt made at my graduation party always stuck with me. “You’re lucky”, she said, “to have known him”. Teenage me slightly scoffed at the remark. Of course I was lucky to know him. Did she think I didn’t know that? Because teenagers know everything and everything is about them.
I wasn’t fully able to process the fact that my aunt’s daughter, my cousin, was only a few months old at the time, so she wouldn’t remember her grandpa at all, who was so witty and so loving and so kind. And that she was really missing a lot. She is still missing a lot, from not ever knowing him.
Now that I’m a Mama, I get it. I see my daughters with my parents, my in-laws, my grandparents, their aunts and uncles, everyone, that they are so lucky to know, now.
None of us are promised tomorrow, and every day that my kids get to spend with a family member that loves them is a gift.
It’s sort of everything to know where you come from and know how you became you. We don’t emerge from isolation, we are products of our genetics and our familial environment and the interactions between the two.
I’m trying to wrap my brain around how important it is, or why it is, but I know that it JUST IS. Maybe it’s that it is a good reminder that many of our traits aren’t solely ours, but are mostly a modified collection of characteristics and quirks and beliefs passed down from our relatives, most of whom we didn’t ever know but who have influenced us nonetheless. I think about my grandpa often, and how right my aunt was.
11 thoughts on “So Lucky To Have Known Him”
Ok..that totally made me cry. It’s how I feel about my Uncle Mike- I tell MY kids about him, I feel sad they didn’t get to meet him.
Loved this one
Just beautifully written.
Lovely post. We have felt similar emotions when Friends have passed, appreciating the privilege of knowing them, even if only for a short time..
just incredibly beautiful. this is so deep and so moving it hurts. it hurts to think of everyone who came before us, going through exactly the same experiences and learning and growing and weeping and laughing. We are all tied together and how lucky we are. You captured that just beautifully. I am a HUGE fan of your wit and your writing and your heart. HUGE FAN.
This just depicts what a versatile writer you are! I really felt this to my very core and “none of us are promised tomorrow” just stopped me in my tracks. Thank you.
My dad just died this morning. I think somehow God sent me to read this post. It was so comforting to read your words. Thank you.
I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. ❤ Hugs to you, from me.
What a great post. My birth mother passed away last March, and my now 5 year old still remembers and talks about her (I hope to keep that going), but my son, now 2, will have no memory. Some days you remember that there’s no guarantee for tomorrow. Now, with my husband a firefighter, I try to remember that every single day. What’s the use in holding a grudge? Take nothing for granted. I am not perfect, so today I forgot to remember this. Thank you for your post, because now I’ll hug my daughter that kept an attitude today, and my son that threw so many teething tantrums, and my hubby who just wanted to nap between school and work (and I was irrationally angry with him for it of course), and I’ll squeeze tighter. Thank you.
Thank you. I try to write about this stuff to remind me to squeeze tighter, too.
Well done! Made me cry, too! I was also one of the lucky to have known him. What a great man! He lives in all of you!