babble
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
In haunted attics:
My heart has been broken exactly three times.
The first time was when my grandfather died. It's a different kind of heartbreak, the heartbreak you experience when one of your most beloved family members dies. My grandfather was invincible - he'd had four heart attacks, three open-heart surgeries, one a triple bypass. He was resilient, always bouncing back to his fit, chipper self. At 80, he seemed to have the agility and fitness level of a man 30 years his junior.
We had an argument the night he had the stroke. I was 16, and a few months earlier I had given my daughter up for adoption. I was rebellious, contentious, what people would refer to as a "troubled teen". I was an asshole. I don't remember what the argument was about, now - it was probably something completely trivial. Several hours after the argument, he was watching the news, and collapsed in the living room.
He didn't die right away. He was in the hospital until the following afternoon. My mother didn't call me to tell me until after he died. She said that he wouldn't have wanted me to see him like that - weak, hooked up to machines to keep him alive. I never got to say goodbye to my favorite person on the planet. I never got to apologize for behaving like such an ass and causing him distress. He loved me unconditionally through some of the darkest days in my life and I felt like I took him for granted. My heart crumbled.
He was always somewhat sad that I went on a dark path, that I didn't live up to my potential. His death changed that path. This month marks the 13th anniversary of his death, and I'd like to think that I've spent those 13 years doing things that would have made him proud.
Rest in peace, Grandpa. I love you.
babbled by Kat @ 10:32:00 AM |
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