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Date: 10/2/2023
There is little in life that is certain. But if you asked me four weeks ago what I was certain of relating to my family, I would have said I was certain I would have many years left with my grandpa.
I would have been wrong.
On Aug. 22, I sat on my grandparents’ back deck and enjoyed dinner with them. When I arrived, I admired the powerwash my grandpa had just given their whole — large — deck himself. We talked and laughed for an hour and a half. We had a great visit just the three of us.
On Sept. 22, my family buried my grandfather.
One month. It took one month to turn life as I knew it upside down.
I am someone who compartmentalizes. It’s how I’ve always been.
I usually don’t have a problem pushing through things going on in my personal life, putting the issue in its own box and doing what I must to get the job done until I can take the issue out of the box and deal with it.
But as I drove to work one week to the day after my grandpa passed away, I could not believe how the rest of the world was carrying on as if nothing had changed.
I wrote the former sentence in the past tense as if this loss is something I have dealt with and moved through — but it’s not. Today is my first day back to work. That drive was this morning. And I’m in shock.
Last week I compartmentalized. I found out he passed at 4:07 a.m. on a Monday. I texted my boss. I texted the managing editors to let them know I wouldn’t be in the office that day. I texted our office manager. I went to the hospital. I mourned for 45 minutes with my parents and grandma.
Then I picked myself up, put this immense loss in its proverbial box, drove my grandma home, and 30 minutes later, with my mother, the work began.
I made a list of people my mom and grandma needed to call. I looked at distances from funeral homes to the cemetery at which we would bury him. I called a restaurant to see if they had availability for a 50-to-70-person luncheon only four days later. I wrote his obituary. My mom and I began cleaning my grandma’s home, as we knew we’d have family coming in from Florida to stay. My mom set an appointment with the funeral home for us for the next day. We picked out grandpa’s clothes to be buried in. We began to pick out photos from albums to print to make photo collages. We met with a printshop to get a poster made to welcome people to his celebration of life. We went to the florist to purchase a funeral spray. I worked on his eulogy.
I listened to my mom on one phone, my grandma on another and I fielded a third phone with calls from friends and relatives as we all recounted the same story, with overarchingly the same message: he is gone, it was sudden and we’re all in shock.
On Aug. 28, my 81-year-old grandfather went on a four-mile walk with his goldendoodle Missy where he said he “thought he overdid it.” For many 81-year-olds, that would definitely be overdoing it — but for him, that was just like any other day. He was the most vibrant person. He was full of life and energy. He was always working on a project, going on long walks, meeting up with friends. He never sat still. I had multiple conversations with him about how we just knew he was going to live to be 100.
As the week went on, he was exhausted and was having significant trouble catching his breath. He finally went to the hospital on Sept. 2, what would be his first of four stints in hospitals over a 16-day period.
On Monday, Sept. 18, he passed away.
How did we go from less than four weeks prior him completely normal, power washing his back deck, to four weeks later him being gone?
The hospital called a few hours after he passed with biopsy results. The doctor shared he had stage 4 liver cancer that had metastasized. “It was all over,” she told my grandma. “You made the right call,” the doctor added, regarding the decision my grandma made to not intubate him late the night before.
This is a lot to share with readers and it’s certainly a deep look inside my personal life. For me, it’s cathartic to write this down. This is me taking the issue outside of the box I put it in, putting it on the table and dealing with it.
This is how I begin my process to healing.
I’ve written in the past a few times about how life is short and taking time to cherish moments is important.
Something I’m proud to say is with my grandpa and grandma, I always took those moments, and so did they. There was not a week where I didn’t get a text or call from one of them, just to check in. It was a rare week to not have a visit — either because they came to see my family, or we made the trip over to see them. I saw my grandpa the day before he passed. I told him we would get through what he was going through together and he would be home in no time. I told him I loved him. I told him I would see him the next day.
I didn’t get to see him the next day, and I’m hoping to get to a peaceful place of knowing that’s okay.
As I stood beside my family in the receiving line at his quite unconventional celebration of life, so many friends who knew him had wonderful words to share and hilarious stories to recount. My grandpa was always the life of the party. But one thing struck me. A relative said, “Payton, every conversation I had with him always started with you and your brother.”
How lucky am I to have been loved so much?
While I do not necessarily have a purpose for sharing this ramble of what my family’s life has been like these past few weeks, I suppose I would say this: we chose a specific poem to be read at my grandpa’s burial with the help of the funeral director. It’s called “The Dash,” by Linda Ellis. Though I will not put it all here, I will summarize. The poem explains that there is a dash between a person’s birth date and death date, with the dash representing all the time they spent alive on earth. The poem spoke to those in attendance at the burial, asking them if they would be proud of how they spent their dash. It also asked them if there was anything they would like to change, and suggested they do so before their dash runs out.
There is so much I can say for my grandfather — but I know one thing to be true: he would be proud of the way he spent his dash.
My family relied on music a few times during our services for him. First — we played “Soul Man” by The Blues Brothers — one of my grandpa’s favorite songs — as the interlude between the end of the wake and our start to the eulogy and sharing of memories. It was an eccentric and for some, I’m sure, uncomfortable choice. But for those who truly knew my grandpa — “it was him,” they said.
Later, at his burial, we played “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack and Sons of the Desert. He always loved the song, and the message is everything he has ever stood for: continuing to push forward, even when you don’t want to. A message I need now more than ever.
My cousin later shared with my mom and I that as she and her father — my grandpa’s brother — drove to the lunch reception we had, he played, “My Way,” by Frank Sinatra. This song is all about living life on your own terms, something my grandfather certainly did.
He did it his way. He spent his dash exactly how he wanted to, with few regrets. I hope we all can be so lucky to say the same.
Rest in peace, sweet grandpa — one of my favorite confidants, and truest friends. Until we meet again.