When I was a kid, my grandfather used to sip tea at the kitchen table before starting the day. I made sure to sit across from him and watch the steam rise from his mug. It was a routine I looked forward to each weekend, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the world back then ― which, if you had asked me at the time, was a Sega Genesis and an entire large pizza.
Saturday mornings were a ritual. The sun would rest at a certain angle in the sky, and its light hugged the furniture in the living room behind us. The shadows stretched across the hardwood floor, and like every morning, a glare would bounce off the grandfather clock that leaned against the far wall. You didn’t have to read its hands to tell what time it was, which was good, because his eyes weren’t too sharp. We just knew from the glare that we still had an entire day left to share together.
“Separated by an entire generation, my partner in crime had always been this pugnacious Italian man with hair slicked back like he had just walked off the set of "Jersey Boys."”
This was before his memory started to fade.
Last summer, the most important man in my life was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Separated by an entire generation, my partner in crime had always been this pugnacious Italian man with hair slicked back like he had just walked off the set of “Jersey Boys.” At 5 feet 6 inches, he was never a man of stature. But that son-of-a-bitch always made sure you knew he was in the room, and he sure as hell never took shit from anyone.
Our breakfasts were always the same: a handful of shortbread cookies and enough sugar in my tea to put an army of diabetics into shock. He wore a gold chain around his neck, and his t-shirts were always frayed at the sleeves. Faded tattoos peppered his arms, all of them damaged by decades of sun exposure soaking into his wrinkled skin.
On some mornings we’d have chores to do, so we’d take our breakfast on the road. I loved it ― I rode shotgun in his beat-up Ford and counted cars with Bob Seger in the cassette deck. At lunch, we’d kill time in the smokey basement of a pet shop with men eight times my age, their skin like wrinkled paper, who would trade homing pigeons and spit on the ground. I was just another one of the boys.
“Always aim for the nose,” he’d say so matter-of-factly, with his fist balled up in front of his face and his right hand cocked beside his ear. Terrible advice, when I was old enough to realize it. But it was his duty to coach me when the teasing at school became too much. Later, I’d practice my right hook in the mirror. That man, the fighter that I always knew, is falling into obscurity.
Every weekend started in that kitchen. So many memories we created just by sitting at that table. Now, as he struggles to remember the name of the street he’s lived on for four decades, I know it’s my job to cherish them for both of us.
“Now, as he struggles to remember the name of the street he’s lived on for four decades, I know it’s my job to cherish [the memories] for both of us.”
I know I’ll follow him to the end, if only to stand at the threshold where lucidity blurs with the murky, winding path of dementia. I can wave goodbye as he walks deeper into its grasp, hoping to God that my presence somehow makes his transition into the night a little easier. At some point, my fixed smile, too far off in the distance for him to see, will know when it’s safe to let myself cry.
What matters to me most is my last impression in his dimming world: my crowded, goofy grin there to see him off. I will savor that moment and give us one more laugh to share ― even if I have to force it, even if it isn’t the same anymore. I want our story to end on our terms.
“I can wave goodbye as he walks deeper into its grasp, hoping to God that my presence somehow makes his transition into the night a little easier.”
Down the hall from the kitchen, I still press my ear to the door of his bedroom, like I’ve done so many times as a child, and feel the hollowness of the wood that separates us.
The grandfather clock chimes behind me with its glare beaming back, and I know that he is gone.
This post is part of Common Grief, a Healthy Living editorial initiative. Grief is an inevitable part of life, but that doesn’t make navigating it any easier. The deep sorrow that accompanies the death of a loved one, the end of a marriage or even moving far away from home, is real. But while grief is universal, we all grieve differently. So we started Common Grief to help learn from each other. Let’s talk about living with loss. If you have a story you’d like to share, email us at strongertogether@huffingtonpost.com.
