Bridget was a toy poodle, a ball of tight black curls and fluff who had a love for dirty socks that were still attached to their owner's feet. Any napper or leisurely couch-recliner at my grandparents' house was subject to a game of sock tug-o-war with her, a game of which she was nearly always the victor. Her tenacity for sock-chewing was unrivaled by any beast. It is Bridget and the awe of a tiny glass menagerie that make up the majority of foggy memories that play in my head about that time of my youthful life. That was before my grandmother died and time and distance and other issues too abstract for a little me to understand removed my sister and I from that part of our lives.
Now, about 25 years later and a world of experiences later, my grandfather George, a man I love but hardly know, is dying.
Four days ago, after landing in another state and on the morning of a job-interview, I received a text from my mom letting me know that my father's father had a massive stroke and was in the hospital. When someone gets to be 91 years-old news of their approaching death shouldn't be surprising to those in close proximity yet somehow death always seems surprising. Despite the most inevitable fact of life being death, we are all blindsided when it's cold breath brushes against our neck on its way to claim the person we are standing next to. It is simple arrogance and delusion on our parts but undeniable nevertheless.
I've spent the last few days thinking about the life of a man whom I barely know but who also shares a name with my father, my father's grandfather, and my own son. What I've been able to accumulate in my mind is little more than a references of facts about his life; son of a famous track coach, sports star in school, went to medical school at Dartmouth, married and had three children, lost a son at the age of 19 to a drunk driver, avid fisherman, lover of Dr. Pepper and Rocky Road ice cream.
I remember sharing a warm coke with him at the kitchen table when I was no older than seven or eight and big strong hands and golf trophies and a quiet demeanor. Of course what little I remember and what even littler I know of him isn't the total of who he is and yet that is all that I really have to draw upon to form my opinion of him.
It is only inevitable that now I no longer have the opportunity to ask him questions I can think of a million that I would like answers to. What was it like to be at the 1936 Olympics? Why is my dad's nickname Jay when his real name is George? Why doesn't my own dad know the answer to that one? Does he have regrets? Great triumphs? How did he endure the death of his youngest child? How did he go on living after something so terrible? Did he ever think about his great grandson, who was his namesake? Whatever the answers to those questions may be they will be lost with him and a part of me grieves those losses just as much as I will grieve the loss of the man himself.
A couple of days ago, while I was eight hundred miles away from his bedside, my aunt put me on speaker phone so I could talk to him. I spoke to him about how I was far away but that I wished I could see him and give him a hug. Despite being completely paralyzed on one side of his body by the stroke and unable to speak, my aunt told me that he smiled while I spoke to him. Now that I am back in the same state as he is and a four hour drive away he is passed the point of any recognition and so I am grateful that I had the chance to speak with him when I did. But really our goodbyes were already said last month when I called him on his birthday. We chatted about trivial matters like Rocky Road ice cream and about how I was moving to Oregon. I told him that in August I was going to bring Clio to meet him on our way through California, which he said he thought would be wonderful.
"I love you," he said to me.
I replied, "I love you too, Grandpa"
