I made a quick trip to SLC this past weekend to visit my Grandma. As every time I'm in town, we took a walk down to the city cemetery where we’ve had family buried since the 1840s. This year it was Veterans Day, and we put a flag on Grandpa’s grave. Here is what I was thinking about:
Born in 1920, Grandpa (having always hated his given name) went by Bud to those who knew him. Buddy to family. Drafted in 1941, he served 3.5 years in WWII, from North Africa, up through Italy and into Germany. He also worked over 40 years for the phone company as a lineman and supervisor until retiring to golf, snoozing in the lazy chair, and summer fishing trips to Alaska with his brother.
His five grandkids were his pride and joy, and I was his Peanut. Besides blood, we didn't have much in common. He loved hunting and fishing and sports and beer and company. I was quiet and shy and loved science and books. As for schooling, he finished high school and that was it... but was he ever proud of mine. He didn't live to see me finish my last degree, but his morning coffee buddies knew all about it.
In the last several years of my grandpa's life, he faded into Alzheimer's. I hesitate to use the word faded, because it was anything but passive -- he was angry and combative. He no longer knew my grandma or his kids or grandkids or where he lived, and you felt he knew on some level that he was no longer in control of his mind and body and fought it with everything he had left. (There were some funny moments, too, though. Ask me about the pantyhose.)
Until the very end, he had brief periods of normalcy from time to time where, although a little forgetful, he would still remember names, and places, and his personality. In early 2005, my mom and I had flown to Salt Lake for a long weekend. He was himself the whole time I was there. He couldn't process things as fast as he used to, and he was foggy on some details, but he knew who we were, he joked with us... he was Grandpa. The morning we left, he pulled me aside and slipped me $100. He'd taken to hiding money around the house where he thought my grandma couldn't find it, and he'd been holding that for days waiting for the right time to give it to me. As we were about to walk out the door to leave for the airport, we realized he was no longer there with us. When we found him standing around the corner, he turned to us in tears (the only time I've ever seen my grandpa cry) and said, "I don't know when I'll see you again. You're never here enough." Then I gave him a big hug, and left.
That was the last time I ever saw him. A few months later when I got the message from my mom that he had died, I wasn't surprised, but I cried for a little while. He had fallen and hit his head a few days prior and was in pretty bad shape. He was a strong man -- in his retirement years, he fought off a heart attack, two strokes, and emphysema. And in the end, he hit his head. That was it, and he was gone. The cause of death on his death certificate reads "Alzheimer's". Five years later that still bothers my grandma. "You don't die of Alzheimer's," she says. I was just glad that my last memory of him was of him, and not his illness. Tender mercies.
His five grandkids were his pride and joy, and I was his Peanut. Besides blood, we didn't have much in common. He loved hunting and fishing and sports and beer and company. I was quiet and shy and loved science and books. As for schooling, he finished high school and that was it... but was he ever proud of mine. He didn't live to see me finish my last degree, but his morning coffee buddies knew all about it.
In the last several years of my grandpa's life, he faded into Alzheimer's. I hesitate to use the word faded, because it was anything but passive -- he was angry and combative. He no longer knew my grandma or his kids or grandkids or where he lived, and you felt he knew on some level that he was no longer in control of his mind and body and fought it with everything he had left. (There were some funny moments, too, though. Ask me about the pantyhose.)
Until the very end, he had brief periods of normalcy from time to time where, although a little forgetful, he would still remember names, and places, and his personality. In early 2005, my mom and I had flown to Salt Lake for a long weekend. He was himself the whole time I was there. He couldn't process things as fast as he used to, and he was foggy on some details, but he knew who we were, he joked with us... he was Grandpa. The morning we left, he pulled me aside and slipped me $100. He'd taken to hiding money around the house where he thought my grandma couldn't find it, and he'd been holding that for days waiting for the right time to give it to me. As we were about to walk out the door to leave for the airport, we realized he was no longer there with us. When we found him standing around the corner, he turned to us in tears (the only time I've ever seen my grandpa cry) and said, "I don't know when I'll see you again. You're never here enough." Then I gave him a big hug, and left.
That was the last time I ever saw him. A few months later when I got the message from my mom that he had died, I wasn't surprised, but I cried for a little while. He had fallen and hit his head a few days prior and was in pretty bad shape. He was a strong man -- in his retirement years, he fought off a heart attack, two strokes, and emphysema. And in the end, he hit his head. That was it, and he was gone. The cause of death on his death certificate reads "Alzheimer's". Five years later that still bothers my grandma. "You don't die of Alzheimer's," she says. I was just glad that my last memory of him was of him, and not his illness. Tender mercies.
2 comments:
Nice post Carrie. Alzheimer's is a terrible disease, but those few moments when your loved one comes back are more precious than gold.
Sounds like your grandpa was a wonderful man.
I loved this post, Carrie. Thanks for sharing.
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