"He is failing. It's bad. You need to come home."
So I did what you do, what you have to do, what you can't NOT do. I got in the car, and I drove. Home.
Home, where I haven't lived for 36 years, but where my entire extended family lives, where I have come any time I get the chance, at least two or three times a year, all my life, until my divorce. It's been two years since I have been back here, an eternity. Almost two years since I have even had the nerve to call- since talking means telling, and telling my family the details of my situation was not only impossible, but cruel. They begged to hear from me, they sent letters and money and called and left messages. But I couldn't respond. I couldn't not tell them, I couldn't not cry when I heard their voices. I didn't trust myself to hold it in, to not worry them.
It hurt me terribly, not talking to them. I didn't know if they'd forgive me, if they'd still welcome me and love me the same way; I didn't know if I'd even get the chance to try. It was a burden so heavy I couldn't talk about it, a pain so deep it rendered me mute. The fear and shame and regret of not talking to them became an obstacle I couldn't see a way around. I didn't know if I'd even get a chance to make it right.
But I underestimated them, I'm ashamed to say. They are thrilled to have me here, it's no different than it's ever been. The usual rib crushing hugs, and shouting, and calling every relative in twenty miles to announce my arrival, and they keep trying to feed me and begging for pictures of the kids. I am Home.
And yet. Someone's missing. I'm posting from a hospital waiting room, while they perform yet more tests.
My Grandfather is 84. He has numerous medical problems, and his body is weakening, fading. This time it's a staph infection, shingles, and pneumonia. He is in the ICU, in pain. There is no permanent solution, nothing to fix the underlying problems. There is only management and pain relief, and temporary measures to keep him going a little longer.
He still smiled at me when I walked into his hospital room at the end of my 12 hour drive, and he called me his favorite Granddaughter. He will probably survive this round, after all. He keeps saying "Thank you". Thank you, for coming. Thank you for being here.
How could I not?
This trip was as much for me as for him. I am so relieved to have had this chance to sit with him, to hold his hand and hear him brag to the nurses that he taught me to shoot when I was so little I could barely hold the gun. I am so grateful for this second chance, to have been able to come and listen to the old stories and drink "diet pop" with my grandma, and drive through the town where my parents met; where I hear "It's Dena's daughter! You're HOME!!" in the grocery store.
They all want to know about my life, they ask when they can meet VCB, they exclaim over my new haircolor and thank me for coming, and hug on me. They whip out pictures of their kids and share stories about my Mom. It's the same as ever, and even though I feel so completely different, maybe I'm not. Maybe I am still me.
It feels a lot like redemption, however undeserved.
That phone call, THE phone call, is still somewhere in my future. Where I will be so much more prepared to deal with it, after this visit. This is a gift I never expected to receive, one I will be forever grateful to have been given.
No comments:
Post a Comment