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.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
me+parenting = more patience
Working within the industry that I do, there are many people you remember throughout the years. While some of them, you find, are there almost every day or, more specifically, at a certain time on certain days of the week (there is one woman who always comes in on Friday nights around 7:30 pm), there are others who have, for one reason or another, left an impression on you. For some, it may be that they are always kind or remind me of someone important in my life: there is one old man (who, thinking now, I haven't seen in quite a while) who reminds me of my grandpa. Besides the fact that he's old and friendly, the thing that really did it was when he started singing "Katie, K-K-K-Katie!! You're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore..." Though it is a bit of a generational song (and I'm sure for many folks that age, a girl named Katie is sure to spark remembrance of the tune), there is the sentimental part of me that still thinks of my grandpa singing it to me as a little girl.
I worked for the company for two years before I had my first daughter. In just that short amount of time, certain things about me had changed. I always thought that I was an easy-going, go-with-the-flow type of girl. I was friendly. All the time. To everyone. I understood that each person's mood and attitude was affected by their circumstances and tried to be patient when it came to difficult customers. I was really good at hiding any sort of annoyance that I felt when it came to the crabby, rude and intimidating customers.
But little by little, the longer I worked there, the more I realized just how awful some people could be--and for no reason at all! It began to wear on me. More often than not, I walked in the door with a sour mood, knowing that I had yet another day of biting my tongue ahead of me. Though it sometimes got to me, I knew that I needed a job. With the economy heading down the shitter, I still needed to the rent and the bills, and this job was all I had. So biting my tongue became a daily thing. I'd come home after rough days, pry my mouth open and let the blood spill. I don't mean that I reaped havoc on those around me, but I let all the petty crap from the day out over a cup-o-joe and a few cigarettes with my roommates (three best friends and my husband).
I can clearly recall my first encounter with one particular woman. At about 4'10", she was about 4' around as well. With dark hair, dark eyes, and clothed in a sloppy shirt and what I would guess were pajama pants, she strolled up to my line with a full cart, including a child in the front. When the person in front of her was done gathering up their things, she was about half-way done unloading her things onto the conveyor belt. As we like to keep things moving, I began to ring her items up and place them into a spare basket (which all cashiers have on hand when ringing).
Tired and annoyed, she looked at me and said, "Can you wait to use my cart?"
Rolling my eyes (I thought out of her sight), I pushed my cart behind me a bit and sighed.
"Are you having a bad day?" she questioned, catching me off guard.
"Excuse me?" I had to say something so I could gather my marbles.
"It seems like you're having a bad day. You're being very rude."
Again, I was taken aback. Whaaaat? Someone willing to say exactly what was on their mind? How jealous I was! Why can't I do that? Oh...wait...because she could easily call corporate and that would be the end of this job for me. And, as we discussed earlier, I needed it. As much as I hated it, I needed it. I'm just not the type of person who can up and quit, thinking (hoping, knowing) something better would come along.
With that thought in my head and what felt like every last drop of blood in my body rushing to my face, I replied, "No ma'am. I'm very sorry. I was not meaning to be rude."
Argh, the humbling effect of being put in my place. It was not something I was used to and not at all something that felt very good. The me before I worked there would never had needed to be put in her place. She knew where she stood and was always very kind, considerate and thoughtful of everyone. That moment stuck in my head. Obviously, its still stuck in my head. For a long time I resented the woman who called me out on having an attitude.
In July of 2009, my first daughter, Addeline was born. After a brief labor, followed my a surprise (and emergency?) c-section, she burst into my life with a power I never before understood. The first few weeks at home were hard. We slept on the main level, as I wasn't supposed to go up and down stairs. I woke with her through the night, cradled her to sleep on my chest, napped in the afternoons, and rarely got out of my pajamas. I soaked up all the rest and relaxation I could, as I never had surgery of that sort before. Between the first and third month, she began being a bit colicky. She had stretches of crying, only to be soothed by me. I guess its being the mother--the caregiver, the life source. I felt bad for my husband when, after 8 weeks, I returned to work. Lucky for him, we were both on the same schedule, and so most evenings when I had to work, his father, sister, or my parents, would watch Addie. I felt bad for them, too. It broke their hearts every time she would cry, unable to be soothed, for hours on end.
With those 8 weeks of nonstop childcare under my belt, I returned to work with a new found patience. While it was a bit of an escape for me to return to work (I was in need to some time away, so that I could enjoy the time I was home more), I worked even harder than before, so that I may get home to spend time with the ones I loved. Beaming as a new mother does, I felt more joy in the work I did. I saw things in a whole new light. I was the person I had been before, only better.
And that woman who pointed out my misgivings? I still see her. She probably comes in once a week or so. But as a fellow mother, I get it now. We do it all: care for our children, chase them around at home and at the store, work, work, work, run to the store in our pajamas (my husband's BIGGEST pet peeve), and hope that the cashier in line understands when we don't want to move our case of water or the kids to a new cart.
I worked for the company for two years before I had my first daughter. In just that short amount of time, certain things about me had changed. I always thought that I was an easy-going, go-with-the-flow type of girl. I was friendly. All the time. To everyone. I understood that each person's mood and attitude was affected by their circumstances and tried to be patient when it came to difficult customers. I was really good at hiding any sort of annoyance that I felt when it came to the crabby, rude and intimidating customers.
But little by little, the longer I worked there, the more I realized just how awful some people could be--and for no reason at all! It began to wear on me. More often than not, I walked in the door with a sour mood, knowing that I had yet another day of biting my tongue ahead of me. Though it sometimes got to me, I knew that I needed a job. With the economy heading down the shitter, I still needed to the rent and the bills, and this job was all I had. So biting my tongue became a daily thing. I'd come home after rough days, pry my mouth open and let the blood spill. I don't mean that I reaped havoc on those around me, but I let all the petty crap from the day out over a cup-o-joe and a few cigarettes with my roommates (three best friends and my husband).
I can clearly recall my first encounter with one particular woman. At about 4'10", she was about 4' around as well. With dark hair, dark eyes, and clothed in a sloppy shirt and what I would guess were pajama pants, she strolled up to my line with a full cart, including a child in the front. When the person in front of her was done gathering up their things, she was about half-way done unloading her things onto the conveyor belt. As we like to keep things moving, I began to ring her items up and place them into a spare basket (which all cashiers have on hand when ringing).
Tired and annoyed, she looked at me and said, "Can you wait to use my cart?"
Rolling my eyes (I thought out of her sight), I pushed my cart behind me a bit and sighed.
"Are you having a bad day?" she questioned, catching me off guard.
"Excuse me?" I had to say something so I could gather my marbles.
"It seems like you're having a bad day. You're being very rude."
Again, I was taken aback. Whaaaat? Someone willing to say exactly what was on their mind? How jealous I was! Why can't I do that? Oh...wait...because she could easily call corporate and that would be the end of this job for me. And, as we discussed earlier, I needed it. As much as I hated it, I needed it. I'm just not the type of person who can up and quit, thinking (hoping, knowing) something better would come along.
With that thought in my head and what felt like every last drop of blood in my body rushing to my face, I replied, "No ma'am. I'm very sorry. I was not meaning to be rude."
Argh, the humbling effect of being put in my place. It was not something I was used to and not at all something that felt very good. The me before I worked there would never had needed to be put in her place. She knew where she stood and was always very kind, considerate and thoughtful of everyone. That moment stuck in my head. Obviously, its still stuck in my head. For a long time I resented the woman who called me out on having an attitude.
In July of 2009, my first daughter, Addeline was born. After a brief labor, followed my a surprise (and emergency?) c-section, she burst into my life with a power I never before understood. The first few weeks at home were hard. We slept on the main level, as I wasn't supposed to go up and down stairs. I woke with her through the night, cradled her to sleep on my chest, napped in the afternoons, and rarely got out of my pajamas. I soaked up all the rest and relaxation I could, as I never had surgery of that sort before. Between the first and third month, she began being a bit colicky. She had stretches of crying, only to be soothed by me. I guess its being the mother--the caregiver, the life source. I felt bad for my husband when, after 8 weeks, I returned to work. Lucky for him, we were both on the same schedule, and so most evenings when I had to work, his father, sister, or my parents, would watch Addie. I felt bad for them, too. It broke their hearts every time she would cry, unable to be soothed, for hours on end.
With those 8 weeks of nonstop childcare under my belt, I returned to work with a new found patience. While it was a bit of an escape for me to return to work (I was in need to some time away, so that I could enjoy the time I was home more), I worked even harder than before, so that I may get home to spend time with the ones I loved. Beaming as a new mother does, I felt more joy in the work I did. I saw things in a whole new light. I was the person I had been before, only better.
And that woman who pointed out my misgivings? I still see her. She probably comes in once a week or so. But as a fellow mother, I get it now. We do it all: care for our children, chase them around at home and at the store, work, work, work, run to the store in our pajamas (my husband's BIGGEST pet peeve), and hope that the cashier in line understands when we don't want to move our case of water or the kids to a new cart.
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