Grandpa Mike

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My grandpa as I will always remember him, holding me tight.

A fun day at the zoo.

From left to right, my step-dad, Scott, grandpa, Aunt Laura, Kate (my sister), my mom, and I. This was our last family ski trip. Grandpa skied until the day he was diagnosed!

Three weeks ago my Grandpa Mike was diagnosed with mesothelioma, a cancer caused by asbestos.  Two weeks ago I was able to spend five days in Montana enjoying his company and getting to introduce him to my charming boyfriend, Taylor, for the first time. Unfortunately, Taylor will only have a small view of the man my grandfather was as he passed away soon after. I dedicate this letter to him; the swiftness of his death didn't allow him to read it for himself but I know he is watching down from up in the sky. He was a good man and a better grandpa and he will be missed by all who knew him.

Grandpa,

            These last few weeks, I have been reflecting a lot on time. There is no doubt I crave more with you. Perhaps bitterly, I am frustrated at the swift nature of death; my awareness of these being my last moments to know you intimidate me. I have an overwhelming feeling that if I don’t soak in every part that makes you the wonderful man you are, I won’t have been close enough. There is a constant shame in feeling that I could have called more often, I could have visited more frequently. In short, I would have liked to have loved you better. But here, at this moment of reflection I recollect the things that dismantle my shame.

            I know I will never forget the way your glasses tilt to the bottom of your nose when you are studying something. They also tilt when you look at me questioningly. The moment your eyes narrow, I am sure you know something I don’t. Two summers ago, you brought the jet-skis out for me and my best friend, Morgan, to have fun on the lake. We had a blast and got half way across only for one of them to run out of gas in the middle of Flathead. For three hours, we struggled to tug the tired jet-ski with the one that still was holding strong. As I remember, Morgan was lying on the jet-ski with one hand on her head like a model posing to express desperation strewn across the seat, her hair flowing in the wind. I was tugging that jet-ski at 3 miles per hour hoping to get back home before dark. You, grandpa, came forging towards us on the pontoon like a knight; your back was straight as you steered with a robust knowingness amused at our misfortune. But, when you got to us, your head dropped, your eyes narrowed, and your glasses fell. You told me you had assumed we met some boys to party with and that when you saw us in the middle of the lake, we were disappointingly good. You told me you couldn’t have been more proud. Here I was, having thought I ruined my grandpa’s jet-ski and you told me you were proud. I won’t forget that moment. I also won’t forget that you made us continue to tug into the cove without any help—you were always very good at letting us learn our own lesson.

            I will never forget waking up early in the morning to catch you dutifully scooping out mouthfuls of peanut butter and then proceeding to find the pumpkin pie in the fridge, piling it high with a container of whipped cream, and happily eating your breakfast standing up. It was like you were too excited to even sit down because that pie was going to be too good. And you didn’t waste resources grandpa. I know this is true because most of the time you would use the pie pan as your plate to make sure there were less dishes.

            I still have a score-card from miniature golf when you picked Kate and me up from school as a surprise. I remember feeling so special because my Grandpa Mike wanted to play golf with me. I know I am not alone in feeling special because of your presence. There was a time our family was debating about politics or religion around the dinner table and you told my mom that even if you didn’t agree with everything she said you would want her on your team because she was a good thinker. When we all went to bed that night, mom cried because she was special to you, and that was a feeling that was unparalleled.

            Last week, when I started thinking about time, I tried to remember my memories of you. Again, the desperate feeling of needing a tangible memory to keep hold of made me feel like maybe I could keep you here a little longer too. Most of my fondest memories don’t include action, most of them don’t have words you were more subtle than that. Yes, I will remember that you liked to read your books in the bathtub, that you checked that the pontoon had lifejackets for everyone on board but never forgot the beers too, that you had a secret room with a complete artillery, that you cuddled Maya. I will remember that you drank that nasty green machine shake in the mornings, the way you worked tirelessly, and your straightforward honestly even when it hurt, oh and when I look in the mirror and think my butt is WAY too big I will remember I have you to thank. 

            But perhaps most importantly, I will remember you loved God with your whole heart. The last time we spoke with just the two of us, I said, “what’s going on grandpa” and you said calmly, “well, I am dying” I asked what you thought of that and you told me you wanted your family here. I was sick with a cold and I didn’t want to make it worse and you chuckled and said you were sick too. I asked what you thought of dying and you said you were happy to meet the face of the Lord. That made me happy too but I cried saying I couldn’t imagine my Grandma Gail being alone. I told you my heart was hurting because of that. You cleared your throat, and told me “when you think of the physical body, your heart starts to hurt too”. So for just a moment grandpa, I’d like to selfishly sit with our physical bodies because I am hurting having to accept loosing you. I am in a lot of pain thinking of life without grandpoopa and I know we are going to have a lot of trouble “herding cats” without your leadership. There is a Christian mystery behind suffering. Perhaps you passing during the Easter season is only a reminder of this.

            I am sure in these moments, I loved you as much as a granddaughter could and assuredly, I felt your love too. I envy the moments of previous summers when we sat around the house, listening to the Eagles, quietly unaware of the slipping time but I look forward to someday sitting in the glorious presence of the Lord with you.