On November 18th, my grandfather died. I can't say that it was altogether unexpected, but events certainly happened more quickly than I think anyone anticipated.
It was unexpected enough that I did a double take just now when I saw that I wrote here previously on November 11th - exactly a week beforehand - and felt like there must have been a mistake in the timestamp, because I remember how I felt on the 11th, and I remember how I felt on the 18th, and I feel like there could have been years between the two occasions.
I flew to Denver, along with my Dad and brother, to join my Mom and her family. What can I say? Neighbors, friends, and family came by "the house" (Grandpa's house...) to offer condolences and food. We barely had to cook the entire time we were there, because of the kindness of folks who realized exactly how much comfort comes from sustenance. I was there for just over a week - long enough for the funeral, for Thanksgiving, and for a few days afterward - before coming home.
It was sad; moreover, it was surreal. What, Grandpa gone? No. No, he's probably just somewhere else. Not really gone. I still don't think I've fully accepted it. If Christianity has anything to say about the matter, I really don't have to. That's kinda cool.
My Mom and her brothers prepared a beautiful eulogy talking about their Dad. Two or three nights before the funeral, my Mom asked me what my favorite memories of Grandpa were. I've grown accustomed to being my stoic self, so I didn't say much. To be precise, I stared at my laptop (I was working on homework at the time to distract myself) and said, "Oh, I don't know."
During the funeral, one of my Uncles read what he and Mom wrote. My Uncle's portion talked about what a great Dad grandpa had been. My Mom's portion talked about what a great Grandpa he'd been. It was one of the most meaningful gifts I've received, to know that everyone heard about the love and generosity that I, my brother, and my cousins got to enjoy growing up - and to know that his role in our lives really was meaningful enough to be used to characterize him at his passing. Yeah, it was about him, but really it was about us too, and I basked in it. Mom knew how much it would mean.
I couldn't bring myself to talk about it at the time, but I do have a favorite memory of Grandpa. It's something I've thought about on and off ever since it happened, because it was such a strong - and useful - lesson to me. I was pretty young when it happened. I think it was before I started grade school, or shortly thereafter. I'd just learned how to dribble a basketball. Simple, right? Push down on ball, wait for ball to return to palm, repeat. I mostly had it down, but I wasn't a pro yet.
I was standing outside "the house" playing with a basketball and Grandpa dared me to dribble a hundred times without messing up. I thought I could do it, and so I dove right in - counting aloud while I dribbled. After a couple rounds of frustration when I messed up before I was anywhere close to a hundred, Grandpa said, "You're worrying too much about how close you are. Here, I'll count in my head, and you just dribble. I'll tell you when you make it." So, I started. It felt funny not to count aloud, so I giggled a little bit - faltering, almost missing the ball - and Grandpa said, "Keep thinking about the ball. I'll tell you every 20 dribbles."
He told me every 20, and I made it to one hundred, easy as pie. I didn't think about how to articulate it until years and years later, but I used the lesson he taught me that day from the moment I learned it. Every time since then that I've had trouble doing anything, I've just remembered that whatever the task is will be much more easily accomplished if I stop thinking about *how* I'm doing, and just focus on *what* I'm doing. There's always someone else to measure progress - it doesn't have to be my chore. It's such a simple trick, but it made all the difference to me. It's a good strategy for achieving, coping, being patient - anything. Stay in the moment and you can do anything.
Where to go from here? I dunno. When I got to Denver right after he died, I actually felt comforted - I felt like he'd done so much and been so strong in the years since losing my Grandma that he really deserved to be with her. It was a true relief to know that he wasn't suffering anymore. I was honestly happy for him. I was glad that the funeral did such a good job celebrating the person he was. But...I wish he was still here. I wish he'd been able to meet my dog, my boyfriend, and my future children. I wish my Mom didn't have to lose her Dad. I can't imagine losing mine.
Live the lessons I've learned? That's the best I can think of right now.
