feeling contemplative this morning.
having been uncharacteristically up for two hours already (it being 7:30), i've equally read and thought quite a bit.
looking forward to going camping.
really, really, really need to make it out to the cabin sometime soon. unfortunately, everyone else in the family (and our family friends) thinks the same... so hardly ever any time to truly be alone up there. oh well. still an amazing place. dear god, the foresight my grandfather posessed still bewilders me.
since i'm in the mood for waxing poetic rambles... a story:
my grandfather was the closest thing to a "true" father that i had (whatever that means). in any case, he was the central fatherly figure in my life until his death when i was 15.
i think i remember being with him when the doctor told him "oh, this is the best kind of cancer to have... slow growing... easy, painless." i now hold a healthy distrust of doctors' words.
it was decided, early on, that when the time came, we would transport grandpa to the cabin, so that he could die there peacefully in the surroundings of his own kindness and meaning.
coming home from school, i would always have at least three hours (often more) where, through the baby monitor set that my mom got, i would be able to listen in on my grandfather's decay. for an early teen, death was a somber, frightening thing... and hearing it knock thrice daily, only to leave, was torturous. logically, i avoided my grandfather. i sometimes wonder if this helped speed his process.
my mother was, then, a geriatric nurse, and was thoroughly verse in the process of dying. it was her job to ease the dying process, and she'd sat by many deathbeds. thus, when she recognized that it was coming faster than anticipated, we hired a private ambulance to cart my near-comatose grandfather down the trecherous stairwell to the makeshift bed that we'd set up in the back of my aunt's minivan.
really, it was a coldly calculated and planned ordeal. not without compassion, surely, but in retrospect, i doubt any better planning has gone into one's death than what went into this one. i'm grateful to say, though, that life (and death) has a habit of foiling such plans.
two teams, two vehicles, a rotating schedule of planned stops and changing of the guards. in the minivan: driver, passenger (to aid in conversation and entertainment for driver and caretaker), caretaker (obvious duties), and my grandfather. in the chase car: the backup team.
i spent most of the time in the chase car, where, i suppose inspired by the imminent death of my grandpa, various members of my family told the tales of his life that'd been shunned from my ears (due to youth). i learned quite quickly that he'd been done more, been through more, suffered more, and lived more than i'd imagined. of course, at barely 15, how much can a grandson understand of his eighty+ grandfather's life?
three-quarters of the way into the 7-hour drive, at a scheduled changing of the guards, my mother, aunt, and i sat in the minivan (aunt driving, mother caretaking), ready to go. my mother looked up at my aunt through the rearview, and said "i think he's gone."
at this point, all personality traits characteristic to members of my family in tow (save grandpa) expressed themselves. my aunt walked off into the grass, sobbing loudly, ignoring all attempts of comfort. my mother sat, calmly, by my grandfather's side. i sat in the front seat, confused. everyone else was trying to wrangle my aunt.
i won't ever understand things. i know this. there are things more complex, technical, ethereal... than my mind will ever wrap itself around. especially the question of why.
why, then, after ten minutes of technical death, after all color had passed, after no heartbeat, after no breathing, after, i can only assume, no mental activity, did my grandfather start breathing again? i suspect that when my time comes, only then will i understand.
had we been pulled over for speeding 30+ mph over the limit, assuming we'd actually pulled over, i believe that my aunt would've explained the situation with such conviction that the officer would've escorted us to madagascar if we'd needed. however, that wasn't the case. we made the remaining miles in record time, and arrived at the cabin (set up with a medical bed in the place where his favorite chair had always been) shortly before 10pm.
since my grandfather's reemergence into life, (my aunt exclaimed "Mom must've kicked him out! Told him, 'You gotta get back there, you ain't done yet!'") he'd been what my mother called "chain-logging." no sound will ever haunt me more than this. it is a long, strenuous process of breathing, where each inhale and exhale is so laborous that you suspect it is the last. then you're sure it's the last. then you're positive. then you're looking around, seeing if others suspect the same as you. then comes the beginnings of another breath... and so on.
my grandfather's logging was a loud process, one which drove me as far away from him as i could sensitively get. i fell asleep after staring at the ceiling, through which hauntingly came the sounds of the struggle for life.
around 2am, my mother woke me to tell me that he'd died. my response, despite the influence of sleep, was clear and came instinctively: "oh? good, he is finally at peace." i don't remember my mother's response to this, nor whether or not i said anything more. i know that i fell back asleep, and that i have a vague memory of hearing the police officers come to confirm my grandpa's passing.
when i awoke, everything was the same as it had been when i'd woken up at our cabin. it was nearing 10am. the sun was reflecting, blindingly, off the lake and into the cabin. my family was seated around the table, eating breakfast. the medical bed sat empty, with the lake and surrounding mountains as a backdrop through the window.
the service was held at a campground down the road. my grandmother had devoted much of her energy to the camp in her later years, and some of her ashes had been buried there. sitting in the front row (the only time i remember sitting in such a place), i was allowed the freedom to stare out at the lake. i didn't cry, despite my wishes. though this seems, now, in retrospect, to've been an appropriate ode to my grandfather's influence. he'd taught me not to cry.
i remember there were some family members (those a bit more distant, but ever-hopeful that they were in the will) who felt that my non-crying was cold and heartless. i remember not giving a shit, and thinking happily that my grandfather's suffering was over. most of my memories of his passing are like this. a suspicion that i should feel guilty, but in the end, feeling calm and accepting of the truth of the matter.
some of his ashes were buried in a place we believe to be the same as my grandmother's. others were buried next to the tree that we'd planted in memory of my grandmother (and with some of her ashes).
the tree still survives at the cabin, though i wonder if there were a better place for it. the other ashes, at the campground, are now part of the ground that sits as the footing for an outdoor chapel bearing our family name. the chapel, appropriately enough, looks out over the lake, ever-contemplative.
having been uncharacteristically up for two hours already (it being 7:30), i've equally read and thought quite a bit.
looking forward to going camping.
really, really, really need to make it out to the cabin sometime soon. unfortunately, everyone else in the family (and our family friends) thinks the same... so hardly ever any time to truly be alone up there. oh well. still an amazing place. dear god, the foresight my grandfather posessed still bewilders me.
since i'm in the mood for waxing poetic rambles... a story:
my grandfather was the closest thing to a "true" father that i had (whatever that means). in any case, he was the central fatherly figure in my life until his death when i was 15.
i think i remember being with him when the doctor told him "oh, this is the best kind of cancer to have... slow growing... easy, painless." i now hold a healthy distrust of doctors' words.
it was decided, early on, that when the time came, we would transport grandpa to the cabin, so that he could die there peacefully in the surroundings of his own kindness and meaning.
coming home from school, i would always have at least three hours (often more) where, through the baby monitor set that my mom got, i would be able to listen in on my grandfather's decay. for an early teen, death was a somber, frightening thing... and hearing it knock thrice daily, only to leave, was torturous. logically, i avoided my grandfather. i sometimes wonder if this helped speed his process.
my mother was, then, a geriatric nurse, and was thoroughly verse in the process of dying. it was her job to ease the dying process, and she'd sat by many deathbeds. thus, when she recognized that it was coming faster than anticipated, we hired a private ambulance to cart my near-comatose grandfather down the trecherous stairwell to the makeshift bed that we'd set up in the back of my aunt's minivan.
really, it was a coldly calculated and planned ordeal. not without compassion, surely, but in retrospect, i doubt any better planning has gone into one's death than what went into this one. i'm grateful to say, though, that life (and death) has a habit of foiling such plans.
two teams, two vehicles, a rotating schedule of planned stops and changing of the guards. in the minivan: driver, passenger (to aid in conversation and entertainment for driver and caretaker), caretaker (obvious duties), and my grandfather. in the chase car: the backup team.
i spent most of the time in the chase car, where, i suppose inspired by the imminent death of my grandpa, various members of my family told the tales of his life that'd been shunned from my ears (due to youth). i learned quite quickly that he'd been done more, been through more, suffered more, and lived more than i'd imagined. of course, at barely 15, how much can a grandson understand of his eighty+ grandfather's life?
three-quarters of the way into the 7-hour drive, at a scheduled changing of the guards, my mother, aunt, and i sat in the minivan (aunt driving, mother caretaking), ready to go. my mother looked up at my aunt through the rearview, and said "i think he's gone."
at this point, all personality traits characteristic to members of my family in tow (save grandpa) expressed themselves. my aunt walked off into the grass, sobbing loudly, ignoring all attempts of comfort. my mother sat, calmly, by my grandfather's side. i sat in the front seat, confused. everyone else was trying to wrangle my aunt.
i won't ever understand things. i know this. there are things more complex, technical, ethereal... than my mind will ever wrap itself around. especially the question of why.
why, then, after ten minutes of technical death, after all color had passed, after no heartbeat, after no breathing, after, i can only assume, no mental activity, did my grandfather start breathing again? i suspect that when my time comes, only then will i understand.
had we been pulled over for speeding 30+ mph over the limit, assuming we'd actually pulled over, i believe that my aunt would've explained the situation with such conviction that the officer would've escorted us to madagascar if we'd needed. however, that wasn't the case. we made the remaining miles in record time, and arrived at the cabin (set up with a medical bed in the place where his favorite chair had always been) shortly before 10pm.
since my grandfather's reemergence into life, (my aunt exclaimed "Mom must've kicked him out! Told him, 'You gotta get back there, you ain't done yet!'") he'd been what my mother called "chain-logging." no sound will ever haunt me more than this. it is a long, strenuous process of breathing, where each inhale and exhale is so laborous that you suspect it is the last. then you're sure it's the last. then you're positive. then you're looking around, seeing if others suspect the same as you. then comes the beginnings of another breath... and so on.
my grandfather's logging was a loud process, one which drove me as far away from him as i could sensitively get. i fell asleep after staring at the ceiling, through which hauntingly came the sounds of the struggle for life.
around 2am, my mother woke me to tell me that he'd died. my response, despite the influence of sleep, was clear and came instinctively: "oh? good, he is finally at peace." i don't remember my mother's response to this, nor whether or not i said anything more. i know that i fell back asleep, and that i have a vague memory of hearing the police officers come to confirm my grandpa's passing.
when i awoke, everything was the same as it had been when i'd woken up at our cabin. it was nearing 10am. the sun was reflecting, blindingly, off the lake and into the cabin. my family was seated around the table, eating breakfast. the medical bed sat empty, with the lake and surrounding mountains as a backdrop through the window.
the service was held at a campground down the road. my grandmother had devoted much of her energy to the camp in her later years, and some of her ashes had been buried there. sitting in the front row (the only time i remember sitting in such a place), i was allowed the freedom to stare out at the lake. i didn't cry, despite my wishes. though this seems, now, in retrospect, to've been an appropriate ode to my grandfather's influence. he'd taught me not to cry.
i remember there were some family members (those a bit more distant, but ever-hopeful that they were in the will) who felt that my non-crying was cold and heartless. i remember not giving a shit, and thinking happily that my grandfather's suffering was over. most of my memories of his passing are like this. a suspicion that i should feel guilty, but in the end, feeling calm and accepting of the truth of the matter.
some of his ashes were buried in a place we believe to be the same as my grandmother's. others were buried next to the tree that we'd planted in memory of my grandmother (and with some of her ashes).
the tree still survives at the cabin, though i wonder if there were a better place for it. the other ashes, at the campground, are now part of the ground that sits as the footing for an outdoor chapel bearing our family name. the chapel, appropriately enough, looks out over the lake, ever-contemplative.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
thanks.