Grandpa

After enough life lived, one may ponder their biggest successes, failures, and regrets. Of all my regrets, the one I place above all others was out of my control.

My grandpa and I loved watching Michael Jordan play and appreciated his abilities on the court from very different perspectives. Now, the number Jordan famously wore represents the number of years my grandpa passed away.

I was in eight grade and knew this day was coming. His health was rapidly declining due to the cancer he had since the summer before, combined with the effects of chemotherapy and radiation. When our like-another-mother neighbor told my sister and me of grandpa’s passing that Thursday morning, we were given the option to stay home or go to school.

Our parents were with our grandma and aunts and uncle, consoling each other and grieving loss the one of, if not the, most important man in their lives. I remember it being a Thursday because Thursdays were Art Class and I got to see my crush, my Art teacher. The timing was fortuitous with my needed distraction already in play. I chose to attend a full day of classes.

I was a little numb, trying to be strong. However, a few days later at his wake, I cried harder and more than any other wake, before or since. The sadness that surrounded my family and me was compounded by the sheer number of people that came to pay their last respects to this great man. My grandpa touched so many lives in his 68 years that the funeral home had to open all the other rooms to accommodate the large crowd. Thankfully, his was the only wake that day.

My mom worked at the school we went to, so the faculty that was like another family came by to offer their sympathies to everyone. Despite my bashful demeanor at that time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to shed as many tears as I needed to regardless of who was in front of me. I felt so much love from everyone that came by. Many of them took turns holding me each time I broke down.

My small pond of tears were hard for me to explain at the time. I just let them flow without question. As I’ve aged over time, I’ve realized it was partly from all of us losing him, but also me losing him when I was only 13 years old.

Since then, I’ve heard tons of stories of him and how wonderful he was, especially from the love of his life, our grandma. It wasn’t until years later through those stories that I realized the full scope of who he was and what he stood for. His sense of humor and work ethic were second to none, some of which I was lucky enough to see up close.

He was the first person to take me fishing and saw me catch my first fish, a perch, which I proudly displayed in the small kid's pool in the backyard. It somehow lived for about a week until we saw it was floating. Being a reminder of hanging out with grandpa, I couldn’t bring myself to properly dispose of it.

You see, fishing with him was the first meaningful time we spent together. He was retired at this point and I was in third or fourth grade. Until then, I was intimidated by him. He was quick to yell if he’d get real upset, especially when picky eater me would scoff at what I was served at his house.

He grew up poor and never forgot the sense of appreciating every morsel he was given no matter how it tasted. During that fishing trip, I saw a softer side to my grandpa and stopped being scared of him. I realized his sporadic yelling was always short lived and came from a place of caring.

Have you ever witnessed two stubborn people argue? It is pure entertainment, or at least it was when my grandma and grandpa would argue. It wasn’t till I was much older that I realized how much they loved each other and the example they set for me. When they’d get upset and holler a little, they’d quickly go to other parts of the house to cool off before coming together more calmly to resolve the issue. No cross words were spoken or cheap shots taken, loud disagreements was all they were. Though each were quite, quite stubborn, they always came to a compromise. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.

The last time I saw him was at the house he and grandma had since the 50s, while he was under hospice care. It was prior to a basketball game of mine for my school, and he was in a bed in the middle of the always immaculate living room. My family was visiting him and grandma, and we had as nice of a visit as we could considering his impending death.

He was very tired and too weak to speak more than barely above a whisper. When we went to say goodbye, I went to his bedside to give him as full a hug as I could with all the limitations he had. We said our farewells and told each other we loved each other, and then he said, “Go and score some points.”  

As a bench warmer, I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance. After the game, I beamed of scoring a few points in relief of the much better players. Remembering the point total wasn’t important; feeling great that I scored some points when my grandpa wished me to was important. That farewell and game became hugely meaningful once he died shortly after, making it the last time we exchanged glances, words, and love.

Citing my grandpa’s death as my life’s biggest regret was and always will be for not having him around as an adult. I missed out on all of his life wisdom and the jokes he dared not recite around children. I could have also benefitted from more insight into how it was to grow up meagerly.

He died well before I played drums and became the writer I am today, and I would have loved to share those slices of my soul with him. I know he’d have been proud, even when I wasn't very good. He always admired those that tried their best instead of those that sat on their ass and did nothing. Hell, during an old-timers baseball game in his early 60s, he slid into second base to be safe. To me, that's the epitome of his spirit.

Losing loved ones sucks at any age, and I feel robbed of a huge and great opportunity. That may seem a little selfish but I don't really care. That’s life; I’ve accepted it and am grateful for the time I had with him.

The love and admiration for the man known as Belgie has only grown as I have matured, and it will never stop.