Talked to gramma. She was out of it. I have no idea what drugs she is on, but she thought I was my sister. Told me I needed to design comfortable hospital furniture. My sister is in design school. Not me. I did manage to tell her that I loved her, but she didn't say it back. That actually disturbs me. I don't think I can ever remember her telling me she loves me. My grandpa, now I can remember my grandpa telling me he loved me.
My grandpa. Wow. That is a story.
He was in WWII. Almost died. Had a brick wall collapse on him, and his squad. He was the only one who lived. He got to hear his mates die around him. Got to lay under a broken building, with a broken back, and broken jaw. It broke all of his teeth out of his mouth. I honestly do not know how he survived. He was there for days, before being found. It was awful, I am sure.
According to his family, he was a different person after he came back from the living hell that was his war. Anybody would be different after that. And not for the better. He was in the military hospital for I don't know how long. He had to have the nurses write his letters to my gramma.
When he came back, he had a daughter who had no clue who he was. My aunt was 3 or 4, and resented him, because she had no clue who he was. She had been a baby when he left. He promptly knocked my gramma up, and that baby was my mom. He also took up with his life long mistresses. Alcohol, and physical abuse.
I guess he had what we would diagnose as post traumatic stress disorder. Only no one ever diagnosed him. He would drink himself into oblivion. Must have been easier then trying to deal with the screams of others that were trapped in his head, from his time trapped under the rubble. Easier to crawl into a bottle then to dry out and deal with life. Easier to self medicate. Easier to take it out on everyone else.
My grandparents eventually went on to have a total of 12 kids. Huge family. Huge.
He drank the entire time. Every child that was born--he drank. Every child created--he drank. He also abused my gramma and sometimes even the kids. She in turn abused the selected few kids, who for what ever reason, were "lucky" enough to get the brunt of her agony. My mother was one of those few. Her older sister abused her as well. It was a family full of hate and self loathing. No one ever admitted anything was wrong. No one ever tried to change things. Life for my mom and her siblings was a living hell. Yet, I still love my grandfather. I love gramma too, but I hold her more accountable for things that happened.
Maybe that is wrong of me. She did not go to the war. Yes she was abused. That didn't give her the right to pass it along like a game of punch telephone. That didn't give her the right to inflict such emotional abuse on my mother that she is basically a shattered person. Grandma didn't drink. Grandma didn't do drugs, or have any addictions aside from the abuse cycle, and getting pregnant.
Towards the end of my grandfathers life, he started to mellow. He would have drinking nights. Every other night was a drinking night. I can remember spending the night there. One time in particular, my mom was having my brother. I was scared and crying and all of 4 and a half. I went to the kitchen of the house, and was lost, just sobbing unhappily, because I had never been away from my mom, or dad. I was also a mite afraid of grandpa. He came out to get another beer. Another frosted mug. He saw me. Put down his mug, his beer, and came over to me. Scooped me up onto his knee, and asked me, in his beer breath, slurring his words, but lovingly no less:
"What's wrong baby?"
I am sniffling. Tears escaping my eyes.
"I miss Mommy. I want Mommy. Where is my Mommy?" More of a whimper then screaming or loud sobbing crys.
"Baby, Mommy is having a baby, baby."
He hugged me. That is the first time I remember not being afraid of my grandpa.
"I love you grampa." I hug him. He smells of beer and Old Spice and tobacco.
"I love you baby." He smoothes my hair down, gives me a quick squeeze and sets me down. Picks his mug and beer up and goes to the living room. I follow, look in and see that grandma is sleeping in her chair, with pink foam rollers in her hair. I go upstairs and go to bed, I think. I can't remember more then that.
Fast forward a good 8-9 years.
I had gone on a Florida vacation with him and grandma and mom and one of my younger siblings, I think my younger sister. I had been around my grandpa more often, become more comfortable around him. Not so terrified of him. He was a tall man. A very thin tall man, with sharp features, who looked mean when he wanted to, or goofy when the mood struck.
He gets diagnosed with prostate cancer. I thought he would die. I pooled my money together, saved the change I had and bought him what I thought he could use as a good luck charm. One of those little stuffed animals, that when you squeeze its' shoulders back, the arms open and you can have it hold a pen. Anyway, I got it for him before his chemo started. Gave it to him. Told him he had to take it with him for good luck. He did. He lived and we became closer. I knew I was his favorite grandchild now. He told me. He did things for me.
I loved New Kids On The Block. Loved them. He worked at the stadium and coliseum in Cincinnati. He got me into two concerts for free. He told me he loved me.
When he got throat and tongue cancer some years later, maybe 2-3 years after he had been cleared of the prostate cancer, my mom made sure that we visited him often.
He had to have a tumor taken out from under his jaw, and along his neck. He was never the same. He couldn't swallow after that. Had a nasal feeding tube. His salivary glands dried up from the radiation, and he lost weight from a combo of the chemo and feeding tube. I didn't care. He was alive. I was stupid. I was a kid who didn't realize he was a broken man. A man who had survived being bombed, both by Nazi's' and by years of alcohol abuse, was now broken by free radical cells.
He went down hill fairly quickly. He no longer had the good luck charm, and even though I found another one like the original, it didn't help. It did make him smile. I told him I loved him, as much as I could. I am glad for that.
I was there when he died. I was in the room. I hugged him before he left. I whispered into his ear, that he could leave. He didn't have to be so strong anymore. That I loved him and even though I would miss him so much it hurt, I knew he had to go. It wasn't fair to keep him in a body that no longer worked, but instead worked against him. I watched him take his last breathes, hitched as they were. Heard his last breath escape, never to be sucked back in. I heard my mother wail, my grandmother sob and collapse. My uncles cry, and my father, my father cried too. One of the only times I saw him cry. I was all of 16.
So, I know my gramps loved me. He told me he did. And even though he was a monumentally flawed man, I loved him any way.
I don't know that my grandmother loves me. I love her and told her so, yet she didn't say it back. I cannot remember her ever telling me that, or ever really making me feel like that might be the truth. I have always suspected she cared for me. Love? Well, maybe she did before I could speak, and argue with her. Maybe her love for me died when Grandpa died. Who knows.
I miss my grandpa. So.Very.Much.
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