It was a really awful day, 23 years ago today.
It seems like yesterday.
My Grandpa died on May 8, 1986. He was diagnosed with cancer, and only a matter of weeks later, he was gone.
It was right before my Junior Prom. I still feel badly for my date. She was a really nice girl, but I just wasn’t mentally there. We flew out to California the next morning for the funeral.
I was very close to my Grandpa. He made me feel special. Important. We just clicked.
I struggled for years to come to terms with his death. I was in shock for a long time right after he died. I barely remember his funeral, other than “Taps” and the 21-gun salute. He was a veteran of World War II and Korea. To this day, hearing “Taps” chokes me up. I remember having the opportunity to speak at his funeral, but being incapable of getting my legs or voice to work. So I just sat there in stunned, miserable, pathetic silence.
After the shock wore off, anger set in. I felt robbed. Every time I accomplished something in my life that he couldn’t be there to attend or be available to share with, I felt angry. My Eagle Scout. My high school graduation. My college graduation. Awards at work. Promotions. My wedding. The births of my children. Just to name a few.
Only in recent years has the anger given way to sadness.
Christmas is a difficult time. I have a lot of absolutely fantastic memories of Grandpa at Christmas. It’s just not the same without him here.
I had a tattoo done on my shoulder several years ago in his memory, and that helped. I think of him every morning now when I get dressed in the mirror.
I still talk to him, too.
For years, I remembered him on May 8 through a number of rituals. Then the Mrs. suggested that it might be a little less morbid to remember him on his birthday, instead of on the anniversary of his death. So for the past 9 or 10 years, I’ve done that.
But May 8 still hits me like a bag of bricks. Because I still remember being in French class and getting a note from the school office, telling me to call my mom at lunch. My mom never interrupted my schooling, so I knew what she had to tell me, even before I called home. And I still remember standing at the phone in the hallway, yelling “SHIT!” when she told me he was gone. And I remember everyone staring at me. Just like it was yesterday.
May 8 is never a good day. It still hurts, even 23 years later.
I miss you, Grandpa.
I just read this tonight for the first time and got choked up. I had a similar experience in high school when my great grandfather died suddenly. It was one of those moments in your life that you can visualize exactly where you were decades later. For older generations it might be the assassination of JFK, for our generation the Challenger Space Shuttle disaster in '86, or 9/11 more recently. For me, the time I was notified in school to call home and the funeral of my great grandfather rank right up there as a sort of photographic memory that I will always remember. I remember waiting in line to view his body right behind my great grandmother. She lifted his head up in the casket and kissed it. That's when we all lost it. My eyes are water now recalling that day.
ReplyDeleteDeath is a terrible thing. We have it so good now that sometimes I think it can't last. But then it keeps going and I realize that it's my outlook on life and my choice to be positive that helps make life good. I hope I can pass that along to our children.
Thanks for sharing.
Thanks, Derek. I agree that it's interesting how moments get frozen in time in our memories when something traumatic happens.
ReplyDeleteI still don't handle death very well.