I Don’t Buy the Argument

I don’t buy the argument that “it was his time to go.” Of course, I acknowledge that he was tired and more than ready to meet — as he would say — “the big man upstairs.” I’m grateful that he stuck around in this life for as long as he did.

I will always remember the moment he saw me in my wedding dress. Having both him and my Dad on either arm as I walked down the aisle at my wedding was one of life’s highlights. And, I’m delighted that he met my children. My oldest son, Corbin, will have vivid memories of him, I’m sure.

My Grandad turned 99 on February 14th, 2010. He was his mother’s Valentine and my hero. Corbin and I made him a train cake, gave him a silly paper engineer’s hat for the “birthday boy”, sang to him and presented him with a balsam wood model train, hand painted by my four-year-old. He told us that it was his “best birthday yet.” And then, my dear sweet Grandad passed away one week and five days later

When my Mom called at 7:00 am on February 26th to tell me that my Grandfather had died, the impact on me was visceral. I had been preparing myself intellectually for at least three years — ever since he checked into Hawthorne Care centre to live with my Grandmother.

And yet, the moment my mother told me he was gone, I lost my sense of balance, fell to my knees, my heart a falling star. I banged my fist against my forehead and I cried an awful mournful cry that caused Corbin to run up to me and ask me why I was making such a noise. I had no idea his leaving would have such an impact.

It is only now — in the aftermath of cleaning out his side of the room he shared with my Grandmother, helping to organize his celebration of life and attend it, and having to be the one to tell my Grandmother (who at 96 so easily forgets from minute to minute) that her husband has died and would she like to get out of bed to celebrate him with some music, some pumpkin pie and a good cup of tea – that I feel in the very marrow of my bones how profound our relationship was.

I’ve always known my Grandad was important to me. But I got too blissfully caught up in the living to see how the time we spent together walking, talking, and drinking McDonald’s coffee was binding us together like ducks to a pond.

When I was in graduate school, I went to visit him and my Grandmother on the Mainland almost every month. It was a challenging time for him because my Grandmother was not entirely well. She was getting forgetful and needed help but was too stubborn to accept it. He also had his own short list of the ordinary health concerns that accompany a man of his age.

You see, it’s not the old man who was worn out that I miss so much as the one who walked the dyke daily, grew his own roses, cut the lawn with near mathematical precision and read The Province while dropping bran muffin crumbs on the table.

Once,when I was visiting, he asked me to drive him to the urologist’s office. No problem. When we got there I naturally went into the waiting room with him. I was a complete and utter oddity in a room full of elderly gentleman, all waiting to have their nether regions attended to.

They eyed me with curiously and delight as they joked about my presence in this decidedly male arena. They teased my grandfather and chuckled when he insisted that I come into the appointment with him so I could take notes. He didn’t want to forget anything the doctor had to say.

After my Grandmother moved to a nursing home in Port Coquitlam, my Grandad decided to downsize from their three-bedroom house to a brand new condo complex on Atkins Avenue in Poco. While it was being built, he would visit the site just to check out the progress. Sometimes he took me with him. My Dad came out from Toronto when it was time to move him into his new one-bedroom assisted living home. I stayed on his couch that night — the first of many nights on that couch. We celebrated with martinis.

It might have been the evenings of red wine and dark chocolate when he opened up to me, revealing a world of stories from a past he had long left behind. It might have been my participation in his daily routine, both mundane and ripe with opportunity for that kind of warm duvet closeness that encircles the heart and spirit. And, it might have been that we were just destined to transgress the boundaries placed upon the average grandparent/grandchild relationship, resulting in a deep and encouraging friendship.

All I know is that he is gone and I am left feeling like a piece of me has gone with him, all the while feeling his presence still with me, like I am two places. Only tears and time will help me to regain balance. Saying that “it was his time to go” robs me of my grief.

I was blessed to have him for nearly 39 years, and yet I remain steadfastly selfish in feeling that I only had him for 39 years. On the evening after his celebration of life, I experienced the first of what I hope are many magical sweet moments. I felt as if he was with me, sharing in the joy and lightness that accompanies love.

My husband and my boys and I were staying at the Port Coquitlam Inn. The accommodations were, as my brother put it, “a place to put your head down.” However, my children made it something else entirely. They rejoiced in the number of pillows, the two beds, the novelty of the motel room bolster-pillows that my husband called ‘giant sausages’.

The four of us bounced on the beds, had sausage pillow brawls and laughed until my grief exploded into tiny microscopic fragments which dissipated, leaving only my grandfather and us in the room.

P.S. A note to Terry Hume on his article “Grandkids: You Just Have to Wait“.  May it not be too long before you experience the joy of being a grandparent.

Photo Credits

“Untitled 1″ © Adrian Southin

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