My grandmother passed away on Monday. Although it was not unexpected, it did come as a shock. The voicemail from my mother made me stop in my tracks. She had been so frail for so long I am a little ashamed to admit I did not like going to visit her. She could hardly hear a word we said and was confined to her chair, reading an endless series of books and totally dependent on the care of others. I hope you do not think me as selfish. It was too painful to see someone who was once so filled with life and dignity reduced to this. I don't think she liked it either.
When I think of my maternal grandparents, I see the face of rock-solid German stoicism and practicality. When they were ready for you to leave, there was no dawdling. Grandpa would look at his watch and say, "Well, time for you to get going." I refer to my grandfather as "the man of steel." Not that he is cruel or brutal but that there is nothing in the world that can break him. He's like Clint Eastwood. Tall, strong and steely.
But don't get the wrong idea - he likes a good laugh, a good beer, and was overwhelmed with happiness when I showed him his great granddaughter. He has an extraordinarily generous spirit and looks out for those who are close to him. But he also was a military man all his life so he sees a world of rules, discipline, and brutal efficiency. To give you an idea of his sentimentality, my mother told me the story that when Grandpa was in a mop-up operation in the Pacific in World War Two, he was pulling survivors from the ocean onto his boat. One capsized sailor was clinging to his clearly dead friend. My grandfather wrenched him from his grip and said, "He's dead. Let him go."
And so it was, initially, with Grandma. A group of nurses were crowded around him when they presented him with the news that his wife of 61 years had passed on. I'm sure they were worried he would faint, collapse, have a heart attack, or maybe all three. His reaction was, "Well, this is a shock. What are we going to do? Maybe we should move back to Connecticut." Not quite the reaction everyone was expecting. Sometimes a little dementia can be helpful.
The tears came later and knowing that pains me. My mother and grandfather were escorted into my grandmother's room so they could have a moment with Grandma lying in her chair. I can imagine an intolerable silence. My grandfather then said, "I think I might get a little teary here." The fact that he said it apologetically makes me teary. I can't even imagine something so horrible that it would make my grandfather cry. But this was it. And the thought of my grandfather sitting alone in his room, it's almost too much to take.
The thing I remember most about my grandmother were her hands. They were soft and kind. I can think of nothing that was more reflective of her overall character. She was the softness and humanity that offset my grandfather's punctuality and discipline. They were an ideal pairing for 61 years and she will be missed terribly by everyone who knew her.
My condolences, Dave. My grandmother is 102, so I live with the thought of this always in the background. God bless.
Posted by: Suldog | April 10, 2008 at 06:50 AM
Suldog - thank you for the condolences. These past couple of months have been an intensely emotional time for me so comments like yours are particularly nice to receive.
Posted by: Dave G | April 10, 2008 at 08:05 AM
I'm so sorry to read about this. I think we all have relationships with our grandparents which are special, in ways totally different than with our parents. Condolences to your family.
Posted by: Neil | April 23, 2008 at 09:55 AM
Neil - thank you. I didn't realize how important my grandmother was to me until she was gone. I didn't think I'd cry, but I did.
Posted by: Dave G | April 24, 2008 at 10:19 AM