I like to pretend that I’m
a beast. Like I have it all
together. Like I can handle anything
that life throws at me. Like I’m a
superhuman who doesn’t need help.
I’m a fraud, pure and
simple.
I haven’t updated this
blog in over six months. That’s
ridiculous, to the point of being embarrassing.
I’d like to say that I haven’t had time.
People would probably believe me.
I have a full-time job and a part-time job. I homeschool one son, and deal with all of
the autism-related issues that afflict the other one. I have a husband who I not only love but also
LIKE, so every once in a while, I decide it would be good to talk to him. I’m fairly active in church. It sounds like I have no time for anything
else. Sure, I’m busy, but there have
been plenty of times that I could have posted an update. Instead, I’ve chosen to indulge in
slothfulness. In the rare moments that I
haven’t really had anything pressing to address, I’ve opted to do nothing. I’m trying to be better. :)
The last six months have
been filled with blessings. I got a
promotion at work. Josh became very good
friends with the new kids next door. Our
best friends got married. Owen made huge
improvements in terms of speech and cognition.
His preschool decided that his academic ability was so high, he needed
to be moved to a blended classroom instead of a dedicated special needs
classroom. He started school on the 14th.
On July 8th,
our lives changed dramatically. Within a
half-hour time span, our family learned that my mother-in-law had passed away
unexpectedly and that my grandfather – who has taken the most active role of
anyone in our lives – had cancer. Upon
learning that Bill’s mother had passed, I left work to head home, be with Bill,
and talk to Joshua about what had happened.
I was greeted by my mother, who hesitantly filled me on what was going
on with my grandpa. The world stopped
spinning.
I am extremely close to my grandpa.
I was raised by my grandparents, so he has played the role of dad for my
entire life. As much as I loved my
grandmother, there is no denying that I am a Papa’s girl
through-and-through. I’m 34 years old,
and he still calls to check on me when I’m sick, has me let him know when I’ve
made it back home after a trip out of town, and checks the oil in my car. I was gutted.
I’m not an emotional person in any sense of the word, and I completely
lost it…alone in the back yard (well, my mom was there, so I guess not exactly alone). I didn’t want the kids or my grandpa to see
me in my fragile state, and I certainly had to pull it together before Bill got
home. He just lost his mother, after all…it
wasn’t my time to grieve.
Over the past few weeks,
we’ve learned that grandpa’s situation is likely even more grim than originally
thought. His oncologist believes that
the cancer has moved into the lymph nodes elsewhere in his body, not just near
the kidney as we originally thought. He’s
also got a large abdominal aortic aneurysm that adds even more difficulty to
the situation. Things don’t look promising. We have no firm prognosis as of yet, but we
do know that we’re not looking at a possibility of a cure.
Pa with his grands, great-grands, and a great-GREAT-grand!
I say all of that to say
this…
Papa Sonny (a.k.a “Pa”)
is an institution around our house. As
close as I am to him, my children are even closer. The love they have for him is pure, fierce,
and steadfast. He has been actively present
in their lives since the moment they arrived.
He waited anxiously in the waiting room while I labored with Josh, and
drove me to my first (unsuccessful) trip to the hospital to have Owen. He has
babysat both boys from the moment I went back to work following their
births. On days he doesn’t have to watch
them, he’s there to visit them at 4:00 SHARP.
He has accompanied me to every doctor’s appointment the boys have had. He has nursed Josh through asthma attacks and
Owen through terrible bouts of stomach flu.
He’s clapped from the audience at every single Christmas program, walked
hand-in-hand to the classroom on every single first day of school, made crafts
during every single Grandparent’s Day event, chaperoned every single field
trip.
Josh knows that those
days are numbered. We’ve explained to
him that this is the time to cherish every moment with his beloved Pa. Now is not the time for bickering,
stubbornness, and petty frustrations. It’s
the time for playing together (while Pa still feels up to it), lots of hugs,
and expressions of love. He’s playing
the “tough guy” role, but we know it’s crushing him. You can hear it in the way his voice deepens
when he talks about it. You can see it
in his eyes and the bright red glow that comes to his cheeks when someone asks
him about it. He hates it, but he gets
it.
But what about Owen?
For the neurotypical
among us, death is so final and concrete.
And it is. But it also isn’t. You can’t see it. You can’t hear it, smell it, taste it, or touch
it. You can feel it, but not with your
fingers. You don’t know the time, the
day, or the circumstances. It’s
abstract. It’s unexpected. It’s not part of the planned routine.
How do you explain that
the people we love don’t get to be with us forever? How do you explain the fragility of life and
that people as wonderful as his Papa have to go through horrible things like
this? How do you explain that the man he has seen literally every day of his
entire life will someday not be there? How do you explain that “someday” is
coming sooner than we ever thought?
How do you tell your
four-year-old autistic son that his grandpa is dying?
Photo credit: Melissa Briggs Photography