I had just turned 17. Literally. My birthday had been just three days before. On my birthday, I had taken a chance and went to a nearby tattoo/body piercing studio to get my eyebrow pierced. As luck would have it, the guy who pierced me either couldn't count or didn't care that I was technically not old enough in the state of Illinois to get pierced. With my eyebrow feeling as if it were sticking out a mile off my face, I went home that evening with reluctance, wondering what my parents would say. I wasn't too concerned about my mom--she was a bit more lenient when it came to self-expression. My dad, on the other hand, was much more conservative in that respect. And, as I knew already, my mom was just fine with it (though not really a big fan) and my dad wouldn't even look me in the face. Such is life, I thought, and went about life as usual.
The previous July, I had lost my grandma. She had been in a long battle with (I'm a poor excuse for remembering medical conditions) something that affected her lungs (not cancer). As she slowly deteriorated, it became more and more difficult--for everyone--to see her suffer. Though it was the first death of someone important in my life, I understood that it was best. I may have cried harder than ever before at her wake and funeral (for me, for my mom, for my grandpa), but I knew that she was no longer suffering and that thought made it easier to swallow.
The following months were even harder. They were really, really difficult for my grandpa. I knew people to be in love, but to this day, I can't say I have seen two people who were so great for each other. They had been married for 55 years. Fifty-five long, beautiful years. (I can only hope to aspire to that.) And after she passed, my grandpa seemed to lose all joy in life. He would go through the motions, be kind and caring, but you could just see the pain at the loss of his one true love in his eyes. I even went with my boyfriend (now husband) to the animal shelter to try and find him a cat to keep him company (I wound up getting Dexter, my dear deceased dog, instead).
Everyone took turns staying with him a few nights throughout the week. You have to figure, after living with someone for so long, that the most difficult part is just being alone. Completely alone, in the house you lived together in for almost a lifetime. I took a turn, too. Stayed over at his house one night. I used to love staying at my grandparents' house. I did quite often as a child. I could go on about the memories I had staying there (sleeping next to my grandma, remembering them waking up suuuuper early, being weirded-out by their lack of teeth in the morning). But this time it was different. I felt so out of place. I knew that nothing I could say or do could take away any bit of the broken-heartedness he was feeling.
My grandpa turned 90 years old on March 10th, 2002. A week after his birthday, my mom, along with her brother and sister, had gone to my grandpa's house. It was late morning and they were cooking breakfast. Eggs, as I recall. Scrambled eggs. And, most likely, some toast. My grandpa sat and ate his in the chair he always sat in. But before he could finish, he had a heartattack. (They would later laugh and joke that my mom's eggs were what killed him.)
Somewhere around noon, I was just finishing getting ready and about to bound down the stairs when I overheard my dad calling my brothers into the kitchen. I can only (to this day, still) assume that he was still mad at me for getting the piercing, as he failed to call me into the room. From the top of the stairs, I heard him tell my two older brothers that our grandpa had died of a heartattack that morning. Without leaving any room for questions, answers or explanations, I grabbed my purse and ran out the door.
I don't know what I expected to find at my grandpa's house. Obviously, they wouldn't still be there. But that's where I went. And, at a time without as many cell phones (I think I had one, but my mom surely did not), I was unable to find out where they had gone. I'm not really sure what I wanted to find. Whether I wanted to be told that he would be alright, or see him one last time, or to know that his (though not medically diagnosed) suffering would be over. But since I couldn't reach those whom I truly wanted to reach, I did what any teenage girl would do and went to see my boyfriend at his work. He comforted me for the time his boss allowed him to step out and then I retreated home.
At his funeral, the tone was much different than it had been at my grandma's. All funerals are sad, but this time, the overall feeling was one of peace. With my grandma, we all felt the heavy heart my grandpa felt at the time. But with that gone, we were able to accept the joy. The joy that they both must have felt to be together again. Anyone who knows me, knows my feelings of skepticism when it comes to the afterlife. Though these wonderings have grown over the years, in my heart of hearts I know that they are somehow, someway, in some form, together.
So, while for many people, St. Patrick's Day is a day of--well--drinking, for me it was the day that my grandpa's heart finally broke. After everyone trying with all their might for nearly 8 months to try and patch it back together again, he finally let go, knowing that the only way it would be able to heal was if he just let it break.
10 years: seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, yesterday.
I miss you so, grandpa.
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