Time to Send Her up

Many years ago my grandmother called me and asked the definition of "recidivism." She said she thought that I would know that definition, but I'm not sure she wasn't surprised that I actually did know. Around the same time she gave me her Webster's Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language, which has 4,798 pages of words and pictures and was published in 1957. She said that, of all her grandchildren, she thought I would appreciate it. She was right, of course, and it's the type of book I would've spent hours with as a kid (I've always dealt better with books than I have with people). Fairly recently, though, I thought it was time for the book to go, and as I flipped through the pages on my way to the trash bin, a pressed flower corsage fell out. I can guess that the corsage is older than the book, and it must have been my mother's or one of my aunt's. I held it in my hands and wondered about it, about its occasion, about who wore it. The book, of course, remains with me, its corsage safely pressed. She also gave me a box full of memorabilia from her 2-week trip to Europe in the early 1980s, after my grandfather had died. In the box are postcards, a journal, even her plane tickets. The first sentence in the journal is this: "Betty and I barely slept all night because we were 'ready to go!'" As with the dictionary, she thought that I would appreciate what is in the box.

When my grandmother died very early this morning and after I'd called my sisters, I thought of how glad I am to have seen her just a few days ago. She was lucid enough for 99 years old, and she was witty (and perceptive) enough to call me fat. I thought of playing golf with her, of how she would visit us when we were kids and bring us Hostess cupcakes, of fishing with her and my grandfather in Ontario, Canada, when I was twelve.

There's a certain routine you go through with home hospice care: you die; the hospice people come over to make sure you're dead; someone calls your relatives; someone else calls the funeral home to take you to whatever you've arranged for. Then, whoever is left at home tries to watch the TV shows they always watch on that day, or they answer the phone a lot to talk to people who weren't called earlier. If you're lucky, you've got a large family that, for at least awhile, is collectively thinking of only you. 

The thing is, my grandmother's hospice care started only a couple of days ago, so nobody was quite prepared for the speed of things. Even the inevitable can surprise us. When I spoke with my cousin this afternoon, she gave me the specifics, and she told me how my aunt seemed to be putting off calling the funeral home. I can understand that. Hospice workers and funeral home people are nothing if not efficient and methodical, and watching them work can be difficult. In fact, my own father couldn't watch as a hospice nurse smoothed the sheets around my mother before the gurney was taken through the front door. A few months later--19 years ago this week--my father, too, would die, so I got to watch him carried away. 

As my cousin said she told my aunt, though, "It's time to send her up."And I can think of my mother's sisters, the dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the in-laws--all thinking of my grandmother tonight.

How We Let Go

My youngest son turned 18 today, an age of mythical privileges and responsibilities. When I was young but old enough to pay attention to things, turning 18 meant eligibility for the draft during the Vietnam War. And, in some places, it was the age at which a person could legally buy and consume alcohol. Later, and largely because it seemed important to those who could (and were) sent away to die, it was the age at which a person could vote. All 4 of my sons are now registered for the draft, one of those just-in-case formalities that runs counter to my belief pacifism that grows stronger the older I become.

So it goes, Vonnegut said, and indeed it does, though any more I'm not sure where it goes. I look at my son now and try to judge how ready he is for leaving home for college in just a few months. He admits no nervousness now, but perhaps he senses precursors to that churn in the belly that accompanies our greatest changes. Not long after high school graduation I was away to boot camp, and in my self-centered way I think that I was somehow more prepared for leaving home. Is he prepared? I wonder. Have I been good a good enough father that he has managed to learn what he needs to work through problems he will face on his own?

Then again, maybe these problems I anticipate are mine—he is prepared, but I am not. As we enjoyed birthday cake this evening, I wondered if my concern for him is born from the realization that I am losing control of him. For, in many ways, parenting seems to be partly based on control: "Don't eat that, but do eat this"; "Don't talk to me like that"; "Is your homework done?" The urge to control our children seems so strong, so necessary—yes, we must teach our children to be safe, to be "good" in all that word's definitions, to be prepared for the world they must face. But—and this is so difficult—we must also trust them and their ability to know the difference between the wise people and the foolish. Any "wisdom" I have has been acquired through an ever-growing highlight reel of mistakes, misplaced faith, false prophets, and poor decisions, but in the end I am better off for all that has gone wrong.

Is it easy to let go? Never. More sentimental than I can articulate or even acknowledge, I am in a constant battle of reassurance—that the kids are all right, and that I will be, too.