I Wish You Would Have Let Me Join You

Since it’s close to the 30th anniversary of my Grandpa’s passing, and also since I wrote a tribute to my Grandma, here’s his.

You told my mother you wanted a granddaughter as soon as she got married.  She obliged, and you were beyond delighted.  You wouldn’t hold me because you were afraid you’d break me.

You were my entire world from the moment I realized who you were..  You gave me your steak bones to teethe on, and I inherited your love of very rare steaks.

You took me to the substation almost every night so I could go on patrol with you or hang out in the station with all the other cops.  I sent teletypes to every agency in the country with a simple, “HI!”, and they all responded in kind.

One night, you told me to hide in an office under the desk and not stand up.  I did, but as soon as you walked out, I stood up to watch.  Two big cops drug in a man who was fighting.  He saw me, broke free, and came at me at a dead run.  You merely stuck your hand out, snagged him by the throat, and proceeded to bang his head against the wall until it split open like a dropped pumpkin.  Then you came into the office and said, “Didn’t Grandpa tell you not to stand up?”.  I was horrified and began to cry; then he took me by the hand and we went to get cheeseburgers.  It turned out the man had just raped and killed a little girl my age.

I was with you every day, and you took me to the City every week to buy fresh crab off the boats, hot sourdough from the Toscana trucks delivering to the restaurants, and we’d go sit on our favorite pier slathering that hot sourdough with butter you always remembered to bring and eating our crab, watching the fog roll out under the Gate.  That’s the very same pier my ashes will be scattered from.

You taught me to shave you with a straight-edge when I was three.

You taught me how to drive a car when I was 10.

You walked me up and down Broadway for my 13th birthday so I could see all the strip joints, and then told me not to tell my mother.

You drove me to the Castro district so I could see the sights there and drove right into the middle of the first Gay Liberation Day Parade.  I wanted to get out and watch the parade; you were horrified, yelled at me to lock the doors and hide under the dashboard, and hung a U-turn right in front of a float and shot back down Castro Street.

When you bought me my Camaro, I wanted the version with the Phoenix on the hood, like the Trans-Am’s.  You wouldn’t buy it because “only pimps drove those kinds of cars”.  You paid $6K for it back then; it was still wrapped in plastic and had six miles on the odometer.

You bought me my first hookah from Cost Plus in the City when I was about to go into high school and took the flowers from the Hare Krishnas, mashed them up, and put them back in their baskets.

You brought me wine when I was in college.

You walked me down the aisle for my big formal wedding, and I had to nudge you to let go of my hand when it was time to hand me over to my husband.  I wish I had grabbed you and kissed you at that moment.  All the women at the reception asked me if you were available; I told them all no because I didn’t want to share you with anybody.

I ate lunch with you on a Friday and you told me you didn’t feel well.  On Saturday morning, I got a call from the hospital telling me you were paralyzed from the neck down.  I spent the next year visiting you every day.  You wouldn’t let the nurses shave you or suction out your tubes - that was my job.  When they did a tracheotomy, I walked into your room and you croaked out, “What the hell took you so long?”.  I burst into tears.

You came home with me after that year on my 30th birthday, and I turned my family room into a hospital setting.  I cared for you and took you out back in your wheelchair to get some sun.  The wheelchair tipped over, I fell on top of you, and we both laid there in the grass laughing until my husband came home and helped me get you back in the chair.  It’s a miracle you didn’t fall in the pool.

The day after New Year’s, you were staying with my mother because I had gone down to 95 lbs. and couldn’t even pick up your chair anymore.  She called me to say that you had gone into a coma and to get my ass to the hospital.  I didn’t leave your side; I even slept there with my head on your chest.  Your intestines had burst - the same thing which would happen to me many years later - and I finally got a nurse to tell me you were dying.

Per your wishes, I took you off life support on a Thursday.  Right after I turned off the machines (I wouldn’t let the doctors or nurses do it), you came out of your coma, looked right at me and, for about 10 seconds, you were my grandpa again.  You said, “Grandpa loves you”, and went back into the coma.  I came to see you that Saturday night and told you it was okay, that I was okay (it was all lies), and you died two hours later.

I don’t remember much of your funeral, other than my cousin having to peel me off your coffin and starting to rocket my fist in my uncle’s face before a friend grabbed it.

You came to me every night for a year, kissed my cheek, told me you loved me, and protected me from the other side.

Two years ago, when my intestines blew and I was in ICU for a month, I flatlined four times.  The last time I was ready to go and relaxed, giving in to it.  I didn’t see you, which surprised me.  Then I got shoved hard in the small of my back, came shooting back to life, and all my vitals shot up to normal. The next day, they took out my intubation tube and I told the nurses I had been shoved back. They told me I was hallucinating until I told them to roll me over and look.  Right where I said it happened, there was a palm-shaped bruise.  I didn’t see you because you were behind me.  I so wanted to come be with you again, and I was sad that you had decided it wasn’t time. You always made the decisions, and I respected them.

Too many memories to put in a blog post, some too personal to share.  You were my universe, my life, the person I loved above all others and still do.  Your badge rests next to Emma’s ashes, and sometimes you move it to let me know you’re here.  I’m so looking forward to being with you again.

I love you, Grandpa and that will never change.  My heart hurts every day that i was robbed of another 20 years with you.  You left me the day before your 72nd birthday.  Part of me died with you. You taught me so much, adored me, cared for me, spoiled me rotten - but most of all, you loved me with the same fierceness I loved you.

I wish you were here in person, not just in spirit.

Your beloved granddaughter.