My relationship with my grandfather taught me the grueling burden of love. No one and nothing can prepare you for it, because it hurts. It’s the most painful thing we go through, and requires great courage to give.
The past few months have allowed me to recollect through my childhood. I remember getting upset, being let down by parents who promised to show up, and then never did. My grandfather would say to me, “Stop. They don’t care about you.” This is hard for a child to bear and accept. It’s not something you want to accept.
Thinking back, I wasn’t aware that my grandfather, in those moments, also vilified his own daughter, which seems an unbearable weight, particularly because I know he loved her so much. He wanted to protect me from an unreasonable amount of hurt, and while his words were hurtful, they were there to help me accept a bitter truth. He wasn’t the most articulate man, and looking back, I realize his words were misguided. He meant, “They CAN’T care about you.” The other implied a willfulness, but we both knew there was a lack of ability on my mother’s part. My father, he was probably right about. I think he carried anger, and wanted to protect me from that resentment, and I understand that was a burden he beared, and tried to shield me from.
Years later, this February, I had to repay that same level of brutal love. When my grandfather was given his terminal diagnosis, he considered it a death sentence. Dr. Bryant informed him that there was nothing more the hospital could do, and in, what I expect were the kindest of words he could muster (I was at work when I got the news via phone call), he let my grandfather know that home-hospice was the next step.
My grandfather was told by those around him that it wasn’t a death sentence, and that people could live for years on hospice. I didn’t mention it on the phone. I simply told him I can’t imagine what he must feel. He was quiet, and was most-likely in shock. I told him I would see him a few days. I know he needed that time to process the news before he saw me.
When I went home, I sat down with him. I asked him how he was holding up, what exactly he remembered the doctor saying. The doctor didn’t tell him that he had six months or less to live, and when I asked my grandfather if he wanted to know the time-line, he declined. That’s a heavy secret to hold.
And as I remember when he said it again, that he was given a death sentence, I looked at him, and with all the strength I could muster, I said, “Yes, grandpa, you’re dying.” We both paused, he looked at me, I back, and all the history we had together culminated in that moment. “I’m not interested in keeping you around forever, I know that’s an untenable position. I’m here because I love you, and you’re dying. So let’s make certain that you do so with dignity.” I had to remind him that nothing about his health was different the week before he received his diagnosis from now, we just had to accept it. I’d like to think that our relationship allowed him to do that, and hearing me tell him that somehow made it okay, because he knew I was okay with it.
This is hard. This is the act of love that requires unbridled courage – to face the truth that you simply don’t want to accept, but know you must, and help another to accept that fact as well. His death was about much more than his life ending, to both of us, we were the most important person in one anothers’ lives, and we had to say goodbye to one another. Goodbye to calling on the phone every day. Goodbye to the petty arguments we would have and later laugh about. And that we’d never hear one another say, “I love you” again, but I’m fortunate enough to say these were the last words we spoke to one another.
I won’t ever be able to repay him full, for providing me the same courage he had, and the tenacity to accept and commit to expressing the harshness of human compassion and love. Loving him was the only thing I had to give, and I loved him fiercely and bravely enough to approach him with the same harsh and honest love he gave me.
I miss him so much.