All Pretty and Petite

It’s healthy to start the morning crying…

…right?

http://lucysfootball.com/2012/05/28/the-stars-are-not-wanted-now-put-out-every-one-pack-up-the-moon-and-dismantle-the-sun/

This is a tearjerker. The link was in a blog post in my email this morning. So I, foolishly, read it. It made me think (rather selfishly, because that’s who I am) about my own grandfather, who passed away from a terminal illness two and a half years ago. 

My grandfather was the world to me. My mom and I lived with her parents after my parents’ divorce until I was about six. And I. Loved. Them. Of course, what six-year-old doesn’t love her grandparents? But my grandfather was a bigwig over at the Association of California Water Agencies, so he was always taking business trips and bringing me back presents. He also played Kim Possible with me (because, duh, I had the same initials so I was CLEARLY meant to be Kim Possible), playing Dr. Drakken (KP’s arch-nemesis, for those who don’t know). And, all in all, with my dad down in SoCal doing whatever it is he was doing, my grandpa (who had a stable job and was true to his word) was a great father figure. 

He spoiled me rotten. He stole my French fries (he stole everyone’s French fries). He took me to movies. Until I was about eleven, my grandfather had taken me tow more than half of all of the movies I’d seen in theatres. He hung out with me when my sister was born (I’m nine and half years older than her). He read me the Harry Potter books, until my dad told me I couldn’t read them anymore for religious reasons. 

And then. When I was in fifth grade, he told me he’d been diagnosed with ALS, or Lou Gherig’s disease, a disease in which neurons waste away and die, inhibiting the ability of the nerves to send messages to muscles. It’s rare (it only affects .005% of the world’s population), and it’s fatal, and no one knows what causes it 90% of the time. But at eleven, all I knew was that something was taking my Poppy away. And it sucked. I spent a lot of my sixth grade year crying. And then, like the rest of my family, I spent the next few years grieving. Because it sucked. 

He got worse. Of course he got worse. By my freshman year of high school, he couldn’t leave his bed and had to talk using a computer. That year, he had two heart attacks. And then, finally, after a long struggle, God took him back. And, yeah, I’m so glad that he’s not a prisoner in his own body anymore, that he’s not suffering anymore. But I still grieve. 

I’m hypersensitive. I got into a small debate once with an English teacher about whether it’s better to lose someone suddenly or through an illness (then I started crying). I’ve just now gotten to the point where I don’t tense up at the mere mention of him, and can contribute to the fond memories. 

But I’ll never forget one thing. Every time we visited my grandparents, my siblings and I would go say goodbye to my grandpa in bed before we left. And it hurt me a lot to see someone whom I had for so long associated with strength now reduced to a frail sack of bones, a mind and spirit trapped in an essentially useless body. And the Christmas of my freshman year, he was asleep, so I didn’t go kiss him goodbye before we left. He died that January.

I’m okay now. I still grieve, but I can talk about it, talk about him. Which is a big step for me. I also steal my brother’s French fries, and claim the spirit of our grandpa is strong in me. 

To anyone who’s ever lost someone they love, someone close to them, I’m giving you a virtual hug. I’m telling you it’s okay to grieve. Because the grief will give way to happy memories. And you should share those happy memories. Because if you don’t, who will? And if nobody else does, how will anyone remember the love that has been shared before them?