Saying Goodbye to a Grandparent
By: by Carolyn Arends
By: by Carolyn Arends
"My granddad had Alzheimer's disease. The year I turned 12 he rapidly grew weak and disoriented, and before my 14th birthday I watched my grandmother lay flowers on his grave.
He was pretty quiet even before he got sick, never really feeling the need to talk unless he had something in particular to say. He was so unassuming that I was repeatedly startled to discover the spark in his ice-blue eyes.
Growing up, I spent many meals at my grandparents' table, hot and bothered in my scratchy Sunday best, exasperated by the impossible challenge of keeping my elbows off the table. But before things got too unbearable, my grandfather would wink at me and sneak me an icing-laden pastry, ignoring my uneaten vegetables. Laughter would twitch about his mouth, and I would giggle breathlessly with the thrill of our secret.
The earliest memory I have is a game of peek-a-boo at my grandparents' house. I am on my hands and knees, creeping toward a doorway, and my granddad is waiting around the corner, ready to pounce and tickle and dance with me, cheek to bristly cheek. I remember endless games of blocks and trucks, and—as I grew older—billiards and darts in my grandparents' drafty basement.
There were sleepy afternoons curled up together in his fuzzy brown easy chair, reading the Sunday comics. When I got too big for his lap, we graduated to the back porch swing. I don't recall what we talked about. I mostly remember the snap of laundry waving on the clothesline, and the hummingbirds humming at the feeder attached to the kitchen window.
Losing his twinkle
I'm not sure how long my grandfather was ill before I began to notice changes in him. At first he just spoke even less than normal and sometimes fumbled over my name. But the Alzheimer's progressed quickly, and his clear blue eyes grew cloudy until they lost their twinkle.
My grandparents lived in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, and my little brothers and I used to spend the weeks between our monthly visits filled with anxious anticipation. We loved the two-hour ferry ride from the Mainland to Victoria, loved the boat's greasy cafeteria food and salty decks.
We followed the same ritual every visit. The ship docked at Schwartz Bay, and our parents made us promise to walk, not run, as we got off the boat. But the excitement would get the best of us until we were running to our destination. Our nana and granddad were always there, waiting with chocolate bars and hugs and exclamations of how big we were getting.
Around the time I became too old and too cool to run with my brothers, we began to find my grandmother waiting alone for us at the dock.
"Granddad's in the car," she'd say. "He's just a little too tired to make the walk." I would rush to the car, trying to stay cool. But he'd be sleeping, or staring out the window, and he never even said "hello."
I started to wish we didn't have to go to Victoria.
This is my song
The last time I saw my granddad, we were driving from my grandparents' house back to the ferry. He was distant and sick, his breathing labored, and the rest of us rode together in a weary silence.
I was wedged in the back seat between my granddad and my brother Chris, stiff and resentful and brokenhearted. If the grandfather I knew still existed, he had been locked away somewhere, hopelessly lost within the stranger beside us. The drive seemed to take forever.
Then my granddad cleared his throat as if he had something important to say. We all held our breath, shocked and desperately hopeful. He hadn't uttered a word in weeks.
He began to sing.
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
O, what a foretaste of glory divine
My dad stared at his father in the rearview mirror.
This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long
There was a stunned silence. My grandfather cleared his throat again.
When we all get to heaven,
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus,
We'll sing and shout the victory
Someone in the front seat began to sing with him, and soon we were all singing, even my restless little brothers. I relaxed my tense body enough to rest my head on my grandfather's shoulder.
All the way to Schwartz Bay he kept singing—"How Great Thou Art," "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder," "In the Sweet By and By" —leading his family in hymn after hymn until we reached the dock and kissed him goodbye.
Six days later we were back at Schwartz Bay, hot and bothered in our scratchy Sunday best, and my grandmother was waiting for us alone. We all embraced in a tear-stained huddle.
And then we went to my grandfather's funeral. I cried so hard I thought I might throw up. But when the organ wheezed into life I sang with all my might, believing with every inch of my heart that the God of my father's father had personally arranged that farewell party in my grandparents' Oldsmobile.
In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
Telling the story now, I am almost embarrassed by it. It feels like I've dreamed up some impossibly sweet Movie of the Week ending to an otherwise tragic plot. But it really happened. Sometimes life is as unbelievably beautiful as it is cruel.
A farewell gift from God
I have always believed that the last time I saw my grandfather was a gift from God—a chance to say "farewell" and to rest assured that I would see him again in heaven.
But lately, I've also come to believe that those holy moments were a sign—a promise that wherever my granddad was in the last difficult months of his life, God was there too. And if that is true, then I know God will not forsake me either.
This is the story my grandfather told me—even when he was stripped of his memory—and I realize just now, as I type this sentence, the significance of his last words to me:
This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long
At my most faithful—perhaps when I most resemble my grandfather—I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all of creation can separate us from the love of God (see Romans 8:38-39).
Nor will Alzheimer's disease.
See you in the sweet by and by, Granddad.
Source: http://www.christianitytoday.com/iyf/truelifestories/ithappenedtome/saying-goodbye-to-grandparent.html?start=3
Carolyn Arends is a singer/songwriter with 12 albums to her credit. This story was adapted from her book,
Living the Questions: Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life (Harvest House)."
