On Leaving Papa

Tuesday morning we ended a ten-day stay in Washington, visiting all the people we love. It is incredible to spend such a short time with all the people who you love and love you the most; it is wonderful and heart-wrenching and exhausting. Wonderful, because it feels so good to be loved, and it is a splendid thing to have family who is always interested in the very best for you. It feels as good as an old pair of slippers or a warm sweater on a cold day; protection and comfort and sustenance all at once. It is heart-wrenching because there is always that thought, getting on the plane going home… “what if I never seem them again?”

Which is what struck me with peculiar clarity this time as we were dragging suitcases in to SEA-TAC on Tuesday morning. My grandpa is 87 years old, but you would never guess it. He is as fit as any 70 year-old, thin and active and spry. He does exercises every morning, works out in the yard and around the house, and lives with Grandma right on the Puget Sound, in a house that can only be accessed by walking down 50 (steep) wooden steps to the front door. But… he is having health complications. Body not producing enough blood; red blood count down…medical terms I am not familiar with, inconclusive diagnoses. He does not seem as ill as he should, the doctors say…they are not concerned… or not as concerned as they should be…which is comforting, but not really.

My papa. Who stayed with us so often when my parents went on vacation. Who, with my grandma, came to every ballet recital, piano and harp recital, every birthday, Christmas, fourth of July. Who helped us make cars and bears and ornaments in his wood-shop, who was patient when we messed up his tools and did not clean up after ourselves Who took us on beach walks and showed us shells and glass and how to put a rock between clam shells to make a pet. My papa, who took me fishing for the first time—and celebrated my first catch, even though it was a bottom fish and hardly enough for one bite, my grandma fried it up for dinner—I don’t remember if I ate it or not. My papa, who loves my children now, who bought a ride-on horse for the great-grandkids, and turns the heat up when we stay there—even though it goes against all his life-long established principles. I don’t know what I would do if that was the last time I get to see him; in the midst of pulling out suitcases and carseats and backpacks and children, I did not even get to tell him a proper goodbye. Watching him drive away, I could not fight back the tears. How do people go on living in the midst of grief? When there is this person-shaped hole in your life, does it not just become a vacuum and suck all the rest of your living in to it? I felt an overwhelming sadness, and fear—I wanted to run back and say, wait—

But then what would I say? Don’t die?

I feel so much guilt in moving away, as if my moving away has sped their aging. But I know it has not. Living closer would not make their days longer; and I do not know how much longer they will have.

But as I walked in to the airport, I was sucked back in to the hectic flow of Living: had to check bags, had to pull things out and weigh and re-weigh suitcases; we were late hurry up! Use the potty empty juice-cups, take off hats/coats/shoes (everything but your underwear!) be scanned and put it back on again…gather things up, all in a row then march to the gate—

And suddenly I realized I had forgotten my reverie.

And that, I imagine, is how we survive. Life, with all its needs and demands, sweeps us up without pity or empathy, and somehow helps us recover ourselves. I needed the duty of security check to take my mind off the leaving, my sadness, guilt and desire to run back and halt time. I understand now that some (most?) things we feel most deeply cannot or should not be expressed with words. What an optimistic statement at the beginning of this experiment in expression…