Papa

There are three distinct memories I have of my grandfather.

"Let's go out on the back porch for a drinky-poo and a little discussion."

My grandfather thought this was the most hilarious thing to come out of anyone's mouth, so the fact that it came out of mine at the age of 7 was just fuel on the fire. From that day on, our tradition was to spend our Saturday afternoons just before dinner on his back porch with our drinky-poos and talking the afternoon away. (And, no, there was no 'poo' in the drink....just alcohol in his, and soda in mine.) I don't know why we had so much to discuss, and I didn't know it would mean more to me later than it did at the time.


"Over-over-down-down."

Again, at the age of 7 I still had not mastered the fine art of shoelace tying. Much like bike riding, it remained an elusive skill that everyone else knew the 'secret' to, except for me. The shoes were my first lace-up shoes, and they were Keds that had pink and green flowers all over them. I thought they were the coolest shoes that ever existed, and I certainly wasn't going to not wear them just because I was a shoelace 'tard. When Papa found out that I STILL didn't know how to tie my shoes and was wearing the ugliest Velcro shoes EVER (once you got to the bigger sizes in Velcro shoes, your choices were limited to ugly...and ass ugly), he took matters into his own hands. That day we had a drinky-poo and a little shoelace tying intervention.


"Laura, something's wrong with Papa."

I LOVED my grandfather. We were pals. We went for walks around his neighborhood. He bought me my first bike, and although I taught myself how to ride it once we had hauled it from Baltimore to Fredericksburg, it ranked up there among those life events that fathers just do. He was my second father, the one that picked up the slack when mine was too tired from working, grad school, and Reserves.

So, when my grandfather could no longer mask his Alzheimer's with silence, pretending to know what was going on, or drinking...our family mourned...no one more than my mother. He had been everything to her, a father to me, and provider to us all. We entered into unchartered territory - mourning a loss that was unseen. It's grief that is not obvious, a grief that hides behind closed doors. You're forced to leave the person you knew behind and live with the person your loved one will become. 

The thing no one tells you about Alzheimer's is that it robs you of a 'normal' and quick grieving process once your loved one is gone.  It takes almost as long to grieve for their true loss as it did for them to degrade into mental oblivion - very slowly.  Rather than a ripped band-aid, you're forced to slowly rip it...hair by hair.  Your memories become as those who have Alzheimer's - foggy and from long ago, since it's been so long since you made any ones you'd like to keep. 

Papa is hard for me to carry around with me.  He lives within me, but as the grandfather I knew until I was 18 rather than the one from 14 years later.  He doesn't visit me in my dreams, and my soul does not seek him out - and that's the real tragedy.

Hello, World!

The time had come, and it seemed impossible to believe the moment had arrived...it was time for us to leave the confines of the hospital and venture out into the 'real' world with its latest addition, our new baby girl.

I had been delaying/denying/postponing this moment for quite some time already. I had secretly been telling myself that as long as we hadn't left the hospital, we weren't *really* parents yet. We weren't really responsible for this little life, and all of the ups & downs it would have on its (her - what a hard concept to get used to) journey.

It took Russ several trips out to the car to get everything (hospital bags, tons of flowers and gifts, etc.) to fit. Meanwhile, I wanted some help breastfeeding one last time before leaving...so, that was another half-hour spent in our hospital room. I loved my nurse, Connie, and I loved having support. I loved being in denial that I would have to leave this safe place and care for our daughter...all...by...myself (well, not for the first week - but solo thereafter). The thought scared me shitless.

And then, as the hospital volunteer helped me into the wheelchair (I thought I wouldn't need it, but it was exhausting just walking down the hall to the ward's kitchen!), and handed me our daughter...the waterworks commenced despite my best efforts to pretend like everything was fine. I was spun around, holding our little baby girl who was staring up at me, and we were off to see the world. Her new eyes were full of wonder and confusion, while my not-so-new eyes were made new by the whole experience.

Russ was well ahead of us to gather the car and wheel around to the hospital entrance. It was just me, Elsa, and the volunteer. As the flourescent lights and shiny tiles flew by, one by one, I knew we were getting ever closer to our final destination - the real world. I had entered the hospital a pregnant, in labor, childless person...full of hopes and dreams for delivering the child inside of me. This wheelchair ride marked the end of the Introduction to our journey into parenthood. The little person inside of me had made her entrance into the world, and for better or worse, we would be in for a long and exciting ride for the rest of our lives.

The real reason for the waterworks? I could protect Elsa while she was inside of me, and I could protect her (though not as well) while we were still in the hospital...but protecting her essence, her innocence, once we had left those safe confines...that will be the hardest job I'll ever have.