A Chorus for Him - My Messy Beautiful

"Do you hear that, Hon?" I can tell it's a question my 90 year old grandfather does not really want to ask.  

"What is it?  What am I listening for?"  I answer him, worried but selling curiosity.

"Tell me what you hear."  He isn't giving me any hints.

So we stand in the hallway of his room, tilting our heads like cockapoos and bending our ears toward the walls.  I hear nothing.

"Is it your radio?"  When he isn't enjoying his beloved silence, my grandfather listens to his radio with an earpiece so he can sleep at night.  Or maybe instead of sleeping at night.  Rush Limbaugh and G. Gordon Liddy are some of his favorites.  I try not to hold that against him.  At a very young age, I know I'll have to wait to move out before getting anything pierced, tattooed, or dyed purple.

"Not my radio, I turned off all electronics."

"Birds chirping outside?  Maybe squirrels on our roof?"

"No, no.  It's something else,"  he says, discouraged.   His misty blue eyes narrow at me, he is worried too.

We go on and on like this until my dear grandmother comes in to his room to ask him to leave me alone.  She is always peacekeeping and alleviating hurt.  She feels the tone of my voice without hearing any of our words and she asks him to leave me alone so I am not a part of this sadness.  A part of his dying.

But I won't have it any other way.  I won't leave him.

I was very young when my grandparents took my little family in years ago. They never gave us a time limit or a date when we needed to be out.  They accepted all of us:  our laundry, our dog hair, our cat hair, and a volcanic upheaval to their typical orderly way of life.  It had been years since their immaculate home saw a diaper or a crumb.  He was a retired Brigadier General in the Army and she was his classy and hardworking officer's wife.  There wasn't even dust on the floorboards.

Oh, but how quickly we changed all that!  After years of having us live with them, they endured not only cities of crumbs but also:  busted garage windows, rundown mailboxes, teenage meltdowns, astronomical grocery bills, stray animals, ER visits, flooded basements (from washing machine overuse, no doubt), chauffeuring duties to school/work/orthodontist/school dances, and more stress and worry than two people over 68 should ever have to bear.

 

So when my grandfather, whose legs had already begun to swell, asks me to listen to the sound he is hearing, I listen hard.  I want to hear it, too.

"What do you think it is?"  I can hear nothing but my grandmother humming.

"Well, it sounds like..." He really doesn't want to say, "like...a chorus?  Far away."

"You mean a symphony?" I try to negotiate syntax knowing he listens to classical music from time to time but never choral.  

"No.  It's definitely singing.  Many people singing.  A chorus.  And I think it's just for me."

It's happening.  We don't have more time.  All these years of together, how do I say it all?  How do I tell him all my heart has to say?

My grandfather had a spiritual upbringing in his youth but had been a pretty devout atheist much of his later life.  When asked about his stance on God he would tell me by trade, he is foremost a scientist (doctor), and therefore his beliefs are based on proof.  As a smitten granddaughter, I followed suit with a more agnostic tone.  For me (and I suspect for him, too, all along) I reserved the right to change my mind if ever I felt I should.

"It's getting louder, Baby.  You still can't hear it?"

"No, I really wish I could, but I can't."  He knows what I mean.  For the first time, I can see there are tears in his eyes too.  I push mine away.  I want him to know I am strong enough to stay with him.

"Are you afraid?"  I ask, shooting straight from the hip like always.

He looks down at a body that is failing him.  "A little."

With that, I hold his hand and stop hiding my tears.

"I'm so sorry I can't go with you,"  I erupt like a ridiculous lovesick girlfriend leaving her boyfriend for an out-of-state university.

"Wow," he is distracted,  "it's almost annoying it's so loud now,"  and we both laugh.

"Do you think...' I start,  "do you think those are...angels singing?"

All my life he is the logical, practical, authoritative, and respected figure of our household.  Nobody wants to disappoint him and everyone wants to make him proud.  I am not so sure my last ditch effort to throw in heaven-speak is going to be met with anything but disdain from the man who needs proof before all.

"Well, hell," he says looking up at me with that Jimmy Stewart grin.  "I don't see why not.  Nothing else makes sense.  It's like nothing I've ever heard, Honey.  I cannot believe this is all for me.  But WOW is it beautiful..."

I close my eyes and hold his hand.  We have nothing more to discuss.


*********

My grandfather did not live many more hours after hearing "the chorus."  We did, against his will and in a panic, call the ambulance to have him hospitalized, hopeful that maybe medicine would let him stay with us longer. It bought us one more day and night.  He passed with his family by his side.  Ever since that afternoon described above, I have no trouble believing in what I cannot prove.  I have no doubt the chorus he was hearing really were angels coming for him.  Just for him.  I was there and I couldn't hear them.  Only he could.  And apparently they were annoyingly loud.  

 http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior. 

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

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Bringing Him Forward

I had it made as a kid.   Our house was overflowing with the kind of energy that sustains greenhouses and colonies of happy puppies.  It was a sitcom of ages.  Three generations living under one roof.  All parenting done by the person standing in the kitchen at the time;  whomever was closest to the fridge.  Every one of us was at some point the mom.  We each found Tylenol for the other at 2am and a cold washcloth from the same white-chipped metal doors.  All six of us were eventually the dad.  Broken curfews were met with locked doors and bolted windows.  Plenty of us were the children.  It's a pretty sh*tty night of sleep in the back of a Chevrolet.

We had the slow and wise patriarch - grandfather as he checked that windows, doors, and hormonal teenage grandchildren were locked in for the night.

We had the bountiful love of our matriarch - grandmother whose food preparations, constant laundering, and perpetual light singing was the soundtrack of all those good years.

We had a witty and beautiful maiden (my mom) sleeping downstairs by 7pm because she was up with the mosquitos for work in the city.

We had sheer strength and sweet impulsivity of my uncle Jimmy who walked out of his bedroom room playing air guitar with no less than three cats perched on his shoulders.

We had boyish dirt bikes, Samantha Fox posters, and the wafting of Drakkar Noir as my brother flew out the door to meet up with his girlfriend.

We had it all.

The days became months became years and as time so often does, our courses trickled away from home.  Even still, we returned (to live, to visit, to listen to Cat Stevens on the record player) all the time and surged on as pulsing arteries from the same beating heart.

You can't forget a past like that.  You don't want to.

My grandparents have been gone for twelve years yet I still measure out water and oil with my grandmother's Fire-King measuring cup.  So I can hear her singing.   Nobody has been allowed to tune their piano because I haven't wanted it opened up just yet.  Preserving my sacred..

A few Guideposts and an old leather coaster sit atop my grandfather's circular gold-in-lay table from his time serving in India.  Whittled from an artist's hand and crafted so well it has withstood seven of my own military moves.

All these things are just things but I won't leave them yet.  I will bring them all forward with me for as long as I can.   Roots grow stronger as they spread.

Today is the year anniversary of Jimmy's death.  Those words together still look preposterous.  As if anything could ever make him gone.  Not a chance in this imprinted heart of mine.  I will bring him forward with me, in the way I skip dinner, open doors for children, sing when people are crying, and work on behalf of those who need someone.  Nothing will ever change that.  Not even death.

For Real

Sometimes blog posts air only the clean laundry.  Most of mine do too.  This one, however, is different. 

Welcome to My Very Narcissistic Confessions:

1. Long nails feel horrid on me even though I know they are prettier.  I cut mine short despite the heartache this causes my husband.
2. My husband and I are much kinder to each other through texts.  We never have deep conversations in person.  Maybe that's a good thing but it has me wondering.
3. Snuggling with my dogs is often more appealing than snuggling with my children.  My dogs don't make me tickle them, smell their feet, or get their blanket/pillow/favorite lovey while we snuggle.  I do all those things for my dogs but they never ask.
4. Missing my mom really sucks from here.
5. Don't even get me started on Jimmy.
6. Every day I wake up and remind myself this could be the day I die.  Macabre perspective maybe but... I am kinder with my words in case they're the last ones my kids hear.  I feed the dogs in case Andy forgets.  I tell people what I really think in case they wonder and wonder after I'm gone.
7. Sometimes I think I will be counting the seconds before I expire and those will be the last thoughts my conscious mind will have.  1 - 2 - 3...how awful.  What a waste.  Let it be a movie reel of memories instead.  Or a peek into what's next.
8. I no longer worry about things that don't matter in the long run.
9. I've come to understand not many things matter in the long run.
10. Daily workouts are not a priority over walking my dogs.  I'm proud of this.
11. Friends of mine probably wonder why I never call them back.
12. It's because I seriously despise long telephone conversations where I have to remember things in chronological order about my week/day/year.
13. My brain doesn't put anything in order.  It's like a mosaic of dreams up there.  Lists help me pretend to be normal like you.
14. Life is really hard every day.
15. But it's also exponentially beautiful.
16. Few people step up to the plate of your expectations.  Lower your expectations.
17. I read maybe three blogs regularly and comment on one only sometimes.
18. That probably makes me a douche.
19. I'm ok with that (see #8).
20. My "empath-ness" picks friends for me.  If our chemistry is off, my senses know before my brain does.  Works online too.
21. Every day I naturally love my children like my mom loved my brother and me as little kids.  She spoiled us in kisses and physical affection.
22. I cannot cook worthash*t.
23. I do not stop trying.
24. PMS makes me hate myself and maybe others momentarily.
25. I have to try very hard to be "in the moment" with my children because my stay-at-home boredom levels have reached a new high.
26. My husband dreams of climbing mountains, living in Colorado, and running a marathon.  I dream of leaving home for three to seven days by myself with cute scarves, nice boots, and my Nikon.
27. Another dream of mine is to have a photography/art store one day where I sell my own photos, my friends' art, and refurbished furniture.
28. I can literally spend hours in consignment stores turning over everything in search of nothing at all.
29. I'm super talented at not running into people during the day.  It's like I've been accidentally honing my loner skills over the years and now I have to try to run into people during the day.  Most of the time that doesn't even work and I end up at the gym/supermarket/Taco Bell virtually alone.
30. I'd totally have another kid this week.  But probably not next week.
31. Moody is not more interesting.  I find it scary. 
32. I appreciate your point of view and respectfully decline your advice 90% of the time.
33. Jealousy is a useless emotion. Who gives a rat's bumbum what that other girl is up to?  Celebrate her because she's bravely living her life too.  There is no prize for the best anything at the end of anyone's song.
34. Snails fascinate me.
35. Sports bore me to tears.
36. I love tattoos even though I don't have one.
37. Sometimes I get to the register, pay, and walk out completely shocked that my bill was astronomically high because I am that bad at math.
38. Just because I like you doesn't mean I trust you.
39. I've been waffling in my faith lately.  Sometimes it's easier for me to believe this life is it, The End than it is to be a better human every single damn day.  Mostly, I can't get over the idea that God is exclusive whatsoever.  Not my God, he's good like that. 
40. Most days I refuse to care for myself properly (do not look directly at my eyebrows).
41. There is nothing worse in the world than tight clothes.  Not even fire ants.  I'd let fire ants sting me over wearing a tightly fitted dress for hours on end.
42. I expect Abby to get over this tactile sensitivity even when I can't.
43. Meditating and Praying finally feel different to me.  Losing Jimmy changed that.
44. Losing Jimmy changed everything.
45. The Bible has me quite curious but so does Tibet.
46. I believe I could have a meaningful conversation with Abraham Lincoln and Cat Stevens.
47. Automatically, I love people who call me Baby or Honey.  Even men. 
48. Popsicle sticks make me cringe.
49. Sometimes I want to wear scrubs at preschool pickup too.
50. Authentic doesn't always mean organic but the earth is a wise fruit.
51. See, I told you.  Mosaic of dreams. 

Got any narcissistic confessions of your own?

The floor is open.

Aruba

Those people in the pic (second row, right) are shirtless me, Uncle Jimmy, "Uncle" Dee-Dee (that's what we called his girlfriend) and my brother, Eric

In five days it will have been one month since Jimmy passed.  26 days of him not here.

If time seemed flimsy to me before (it did), it seems absolutely unreliable to me now.  We have reached a new month in which Jimmy is not here.  The sun rose, the earth spun, the moon hid, and the kids needed me to pack their lunches.  Days kept coming even though I wasn't ready.  None of us were ready.  I've had to sign Grayson in late twice and he is, by God, ready to call a taxi if I wake up late again.

26 days?

Kicked up with steel-toed shoes is how we all feel, looking for the damned thing to smash up and get rid of.  Each morning brings the crash, the dizzying abyss, the reality that he is impossibly not here. So I let myself stay in bed, mind swimming a bit longer in dreams because there I can hear them celebrating Jimmy coming back home. 

 These are the "them" except not the cute girl, that's my mom.

26 days.


To me, Jimmy is just on vacation.  In Aruba.  Maybe stopping off at his beach house before coming back home.  I did not get to see him so often so this is my out.  My escape.  My back door that I am taking for now.

I'll get away with this until June.  Until our birthdays; mine, the day after his.  Two Geminis.  One in heaven and the other not afraid to find him in her dreams. 

Jimmy

When I was an awkward pre-teen with buck teeth and stringy hair, I had a few "Why me?" tearful moments with my Strawberry Shortcake pillow.

Then came the soft rapping on my bedroom door.

"Sisseroo, it's your Uncle Jimmy.  Can I come in?"

My face buried in the pillow, I'd look up to see his strong runner's legs walking toward me.  Then those hairy tan arms brought me to his chest to let me cry.

There we sat, two Geminis, brooding over the injustice of crooked teeth and cowlicks.  I was so blissfully happy to have him on my team.

We grew up in a house of mixed generations:  grandparents, their children, and the offspring of one - Eric and me.  The six of us were a motley crew as we lived under the same roof, cheated at the same Monopoly, and licked the same dinner plates.  Eric and I had it so good that we now refer to those years as our golden years.  A magical time when our home was filled with laughter, Cheers, and someone to love us always within reach.  In a nest like that, nothing could go wrong.

Jimmy was our constant in a sea of variables.  Even though he was a young great-looking bachelor, he spent much of his free time with us at home.  He took Eric and me to Brookside Gardens just for fun, ate pizza on the couch with us, and video taped us doing bike tricks in our driveway.  He never pretended to be our dad, he was always the fun uncle, and in our hearts there was no need for distinction.  Jimmy was ours and we were so lucky to have him.

Years later, my Uncle Jimmy married a beautiful lady and started his own family.  I missed him so.  We all did but we adored Mary and were so excited to share a life with her too.  Besides, many Sundays Jimmy could be found back at our house to watch at least the first half of a Redskins game with our grandma.  Two of the biggest Skins fans to ever walk the earth.

Handsome Brendan was born first.  Then exquisite Haley.  And finally beautiful Leah.  I visited them when I was home from college, caught up over birthday parties, and hugged him tightly when it was time to go.  We never seemed to have enough time;  I missed him so.  We all did.  It's what you do when Jimmy's not around.  You just miss him.

Then, when it was time for me to find my own forever man to love me, none of them measured up.  How could they when compared to my Uncle Jimmy.  How could anyone else be:

• handsome and rugged but not a woos.
• silly but have impeccable comedic timing.
• lover of the outdoors but not mind a lazy afternoon nap in the sun.
• a movie buff, lover of books, and writer of poetry like Pablo Neruda.
• tan in the summer, handsome in a suit, and still cute in workout shorts.
• there when you need him most.
• an animal lover, music lover, and lover of all things cheese.
• with the heart of a lamb but the convictions of a lion.
• so very devoted to his family.
• peace and calm to my soul.

It took me 28 years to even get close.  (I got pretty darn close.)

My Uncle Jimmy taught me so much.  He taught me to stand up for what I believe in:  animal rights and comfortable clothes.  Make waves but don't be afraid to surf them, too.  Trust my gut.  Listen to live music.  Love Cat Stevens and The Police.  Follow my dreams.  Make new ones.  Remember my past but dive into my future.  Write with my heart on my sleeve.  Edit that sh*t later.  Love all creatures, great and small.  But especially the furry.  Hug without abandon.  Say I love you, every single time.  Show off my talents but only to those who will appreciate seeing them.  Treasure my friends but adore my family.  Exercise.  Make the perfect Moose eggs and take time to iron collars and sleeves really well.  By simply watching him for years, I learned to be kind as a rule and interesting to a fault.

There just isn't anyone in the world like Jimmy.

How does a person with that much love, spirit, soul, and life in him just not be here anymore?  I cannot yet process his passing;  how we will go on without him.  Because we miss him so.  It's just what you do when he's not here.  You. Miss. Him.

In my most recent Facebook exchanges with Jimmy, he signed off (every time) with, "I love you to the bone."

My Beloved Uncle Jimmy.  I love you to the bone, beyond, and back again forever. We all do.  I see it really was possible to die of a broken heart.

Now we all just have to figure out how to live with one.