Just Lucky I Guess

I’m sitting in my parent’s guest bedroom listening to the rain and wind beat at the window in front of me. Outside, it’s freezing. Wet. Frantic. I am about a foot away from the glass, right above the vent that is pushing hot air into my sweatpants. I’ve got a mug of warm coffee, four dogs at my feet, and my mother is making a salmon dinner in the kitchen. Inside, we are warm, dry and calm. And quiet.

The past few months of my life have been filled with movement. Working, fighting, relocating, rearranging, cleaning, crying, arguing, creating, flying, landing, celebrating, debating, planning, learning, growing… I’ve been in a state of constant motion, so concerned with the next immediate task needing completion that I successfully blurred out the rest of my life—the consistent, reliable part that ironically seems to change only when you neglect it. And here I am, in a moment of silence, forced to see the reality of what was happening to my family when I was too busy with my life to check in on theirs.

On November 11th, 2010, on my amazing father’s 51st birthday, he was forced to turn his fishing-bound car around to rush straight to the hospital where my grandparents were. On frightened ears, from sorrowful lips came the heavy words “terminal lung cancer.” There were no birthday cakes for my dad that day. Only wills, talks of the estate, and wet eyes from both parties who were too proud to cry. A few days later, I turned 24 and from the other end of my cell phone a coughing, painful, cracking voice attempted to wish me well before my aunt grabbed the phone from him and, amidst her own tears, tried to tell me grandpa was going to be alright.

Well, here I am. Back at mom and dads. Back from grandma and grandpa's. He'll be alright, but he won't be around soon.

My grandfather is the rock of a family the size of a football team. He and my grandmother have raised eight incredibly talented, grounded children, with no divorces, no health issues, no broken homes. Thirty-four grandchildren, and an ever-growing population of great-grandchildren dance at their heels. No stray animal crosses their path without finding a home, and no lonely stranger has ever passed through their neck of the woods without leaving with a sense of belonging. My grandfather taught me how to garden. He taught me how to drive a tractor. He taught me to love literature, to be loud, to appreciate nature. My grandfather sat in the bunk out with me for hours, nothing but a bird book and binoculars, and we wouldn’t stop looking for birds until the sun set. He was the best Santa Claus any little girl has ever had, the best soccer fan any athlete would ever want, and the best grandfather any family could ever hope for. I love him. And I don’t know how to say good-bye.

Yesterday, as I lay next to him watching the football game (my grandfather played for Stanford the BEST football year they ever had, and we are all die-hard Stanford fans in my family) he turned to me and said “say a prayer for me, okay?” I looked into his eyes and saw the tears he was so stubbornly holding back. I looked at all the deep wrinkles of wisdom in his face, his frail form, his sagging eyes. He started coughing—that horrible cough. I hate that cough. If I could separate it from him and confront it in psychical form, I swear I would kill it in the most horrible way. I reached out and rubbed his back. He choked up. Silence. I realized he was trying not to cry. 20 seconds must have passed. I know he wanted me to leave, but I couldn’t talk. Or move. Or think. I finally kissed him on the forehead and left. I feel lost.

My father gave me the biggest gift when I was young. He gave me a relationship with my grandparents. Out of the 8 kids in the family, my father took it upon himself very seriously to have his family grow with and around his parents. Because of this, I feel the inevitable loss of my grandfather deeply. But it is also because of this that I have some of the most amazing childhood memories. My father loves my grandpa more than anything else in the world—he is his hero (they are both my heroes), and if losing my grandpa isn’t hard enough, knowing how hard it is for my dad is almost just as painful. This past week, I’ve seen too such sadness from the two men in my life I rarely see without a smile.

My grandpa used to ask me “how’d you get so pretty?” when I was little, and I’d always look up to him in bashful confusion. He’d bend down and tell me “whenever somebody asks you that, say “just lucky I guess””. In this moment of sadness, surrounded by a quiet house in suspense of the moment when their core might pass on, I sit here meditating on so many mixed emotions—pain, sadness, loss, happiness, gratefulness. They all lead me to the question “how did I get such an amazing family, and why have I not been more present with them in the past few years?” The answer to the second one is something I need to stop wasting time trying to answer, and instead change it by actions. The answer to the first, perhaps, is “just lucky I guess."

Here's to you Grandpa,

For all the joy, the amazing memories, your gentle soul and strong hands that showed me how to love and appreciate nature and family and all that is good. I will always stop and say hi to you every time I find myself marveling at the simple beauty of the earth around us, you will always be in my thoughts. I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I love you.

Also... to anybody who reads this, I have a new blog for my clothing line/everyday life, its fauxtaledesign.blogspot.com. feel free to drop in and follow it. and tell me whats on your mind. go give your family big hugs for me. and one for yourself.

xoxo,

kate