Grandpa in Memories

My grandfather passed away yesterday morning. Grandfather does not sound right. I have always called him Papa. There is no reason to change that now.

According to Mom, I was the only one who could get away with calling him Papa. His father was Papa, and I guess he did not think he could fill those shoes. But, as a little girl, I had decided that he was Papa. He let me call him that, and finally, he gave in. And he was Papa. And, even though I did not know his father, I know he filled those shoes perfectly. I swear he did better.

Papa was a great man. He fought a battle with cancer. Originally, it was prostate, but of course it would spread. To quote The Fault in Our Stars, he “lit up like a Christmas tree.” He was supposed to be doing better. That was what the doctors said, and he had good doctors. He would be tired and the usual, getting a little worse after the chemo treatments, but he did better when the initial effects wore off. He just seemed like a more tired version of Grandpa, except with a hospital bed.

Dad stayed with Nana and Papa to help, because, as much as he hated to admit it, Papa needed help. We had hired caretakers, mainly to keep watch at night. I remember once when Dad took Nana shopping, he left me at the house to keep watch on Papa. Grandpa just laughed with me. “You here to babysit me?” he asked. He knew I was but did not mind. We relaxed and watched the Oscars together. I had a nice time. During the commercials, he told me a few funny stories about his time during the time he served in the Vietnam War.

After a while, Papa was admitted to the ER more often. His fever would spike sometimes and we just wanted to be safe. Eventually he stopped eating and drinking enough. Then he stopped altogether. He was admitted to the ER again.

The cancer had found his brain. It was spread out in small spots, and was taking on an aggressive and rare form. The only treatment that might have worked was radiation, but it was terribly rough on a healthy person. And he was not healthy. It would have only tortured him. There was no way we were having that.

Dad sat us down the day before he was brought home. He told us the news, all the things I mentioned above. That Papa had, at best, two weeks. He was unresponsive. Occasionally, his eyes would flutter open. Dad believes that he could understand. He just could not respond. I think he could, too. If you sat and talked to him for a while, and held his hand, he would squeeze back sometimes.

Dad decided to bring him back home because he knew Papa would not want to die in a hospital surrounded with nurses. We would not have been able to see him there because of the COVID-19 epidemic. At least at home he would be surrounded my the people he loved and be in his own home.

The day we went down, it was worse than I had expected. Even being warned by my mother did nothing to prepare me. He was laying in his hospital bed by the T.V., a cannula in his nose, taking really shallow breathes. The sun from the window made the wisps of white hair on his head look like some sort of halo. The catheter, which Papa loathed, was hanging off the side of his bed, disappearing under the blankets that covered him.

When I tried, I could pretend he was sleeping. That he was napping because I had just finished helping with his physical therapy. Or that he had finished taking a walk with Nana. I could pretend for a bit. We waited until night before we left. My uncle was driving down with my aunt and older brother. We had to take my brother home, so we waited. They came home, and we could not hug them yet because they had to clean off the Washington and Oregon germs. COVID-19. We have to be cautious.

Before we left, we all took a second to stand by Papa. I held his hand, which was warmer than it should have been. He might have had a fever. I told him that we had to hit the road, just as I normally would have had he been awake and smiling. I told him, “I love you.” My slipped from his and everybody else took their turn. I knew that it could be the last time I saw him, but not for sure.

It was.

In the end, Papa got about a week, maybe a day less. I have lost track of the days. And all I said to him was “I love you.”

We are Armenian, and we make a lot of food when the time for Armenian food comes around. Our family in Chicago makes it all differently. It tastes good, but I like Papa’s version better. One of the items, lamb stew, was my favorite. We had a running joke that nothing could mess up that stew. If we had extra stuff from the other entrees, “through it in the stew,” Papa would say. The only thing that could mess it up was too much salt. We found that out the hard way. Anything else, though, could go in the stew and it would taste fine.

I remember growing up and helping. I would mash the meat and peel the potatoes. I would roll the sarma and watch Papa roll the balls of kofta. But I never really got to help with the stew. I grew up waiting and waiting until I was old enough, until I was big and strong enough to help. I wanted to learn to make Papa’s stew.

I still have not learned. We have not had Armenian food in a while, because before Papa’s cancer, it was Nana’s breast cancer. (She made it through just fine.) Right now, it is the grief over Papa. For my immediate family, it is also grief over our dogs. We had to put one down on Papa’s birthday, and the other went this April 1st. They were such good puppies. The perfect fit for out family.

My Papa is gone, and all I am thinking about is memories. Not even significant ones. Small little ones, because those stick in my head better. Who’s going to teach me how to make stew? I mean, I know Dad will teach me, but it was supposed to be Papa. It was supposed to be Papa telling me to chop the greens thinner, and to through all the leftovers in the pot. It was supposed to be him that ended up doing most of the work while demonstrating how to do something.

He always did that. When he taught me how to chop tomatoes and potatoes, he would end up cutting up almost all of them. I did not really notice as a kid, mesmerized by how fast he could get it done and wanting to be that cool, too.

Nana is a wreck right now. She has good reason. She keeps talking about how it was supposed to be her first. That she wants to be with him, and “why can’t God take her, too?” It hurts more when she starts crying. The sobs rack her body with furious intensity. I just feel so bad. As much as I truly do want to fall in love, it scares me to death. Not just the little things in between, but this. The inevitable pain of losing them to life. Or me dying first and leaving them to deal with this kind of pain.

The emotions just keep spinning in me, twisting my insides and curling my veins. Why is it that I am still functioning properly? Yes, I feel heavier and less motivated right now, but I should be devastated and weeping, too. I should not be this okay. Obviously I break down sometimes, but it is rare. It is not as hard as it should be. Or maybe it is and I am just unconsciously shutting it out.

I feel most stressed over the stress of everybody else. Especially my father. He has been watching this happen firsthand for it all. He has to be the big, strong man that deals with it all. He has done it well, but he needs a break. Between this and still dealing with work, I swear it is taking decades off of his life.

I think we all need a break. Some time to just quit life for a bit, make time stop, get everything together, and come back new and refreshed. But life is not kind. It is not helpful. Time keeps ticking ever onward, sometimes slow, sometimes unbelievably fast, sometimes both simultaneously. “Time is a slut. She screws everybody.” (John Green, The Fault in Our Stars; if you have not noticed, this seems to be my favorite book.)

Time is me away as it is right now. I have to clean the house, rid it of its toxic germs. Maybe cook some lunch because I should at least try to keep up my health. Coach would be mad otherwise. (I forgot to mention, I am on a swim team. More on that some other time.)

Last updated June 27, 2020