Thoughts of LoWriter

The Strong One

I called Grandpa yesterday. It's always the hardest thing to do...calling him before a surgery, I mean. I'm never sure if it's going to be the last time I talk to him. We're always trying to say things without saying them; always trying to say goodbye without actually saying goodbye because that would be accepting it, and we want to fight it. I keep thinking that it will get easier, but it never does. If anything, it gets harder.

I didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Amy, and I'm not very good at goodbyes in general. I don't really like them. I try my best never to watch someone drive away (although sometimes it can't be helped without being extremely rude) because I feel worse if I do. I'm not sure what it is about watching people leave that breaks my heart, but it's worse than the actual leaving in my mind.

I'm not going to be able to be up north with the family when Grandpa has his surgery, and a small part of me is sort of glad because that's always the worst part. I always feel like I can't cry, like I'm not supposed to cry, because I'm supposed to be the strong one. The other part of me (the part that hasn't been conditioned to think like, well, a man) feels like if someone would give me permission, I would cry my heart out. I would weep and weep even though it's silly to cry just because you're scared.

Yesterday, I started to really lose it in church. I mean, I could feel the greif welling up inside of me, and I knew if I didn't get out of there, I was going to make a scene. I couldn't even say anything; I just had to leave. I drove around playing Rent songs and singing at the top of my lungs just so that I wouldn't have to go home and explain why my eyes were red to my sister. Then she left, and I took a nap.

Then I called Grandpa, and we said the things that we never actually say to each other. What we really say is, "Well, the doctor sounds optimistic, so that's a good thing," when what we mean is, "We're both really scared, but it sounds like maybe it'll be all right." He says, "I came out of the last one OK, so probably I'm going to be all right this time, too," but what he means is, "I am going to be OK, right?" I say, "I've got everyone I know praying for you, so just remember that," but what I mean is "Please fight this; don't leave me." We both try not to cry, and most of the times anymore, he's the one who starts crying, and I'm the one who holds back the tears because I'm supposed to be the strong one now.

We do say some of the things we mean. He tells me all the time how proud he is of us girls, and he tells me that he thinks the world of us. ("I just think the world of you girls.") I tell him how much he's taught me, and he tells me that he thinks it was probably the other way around.

He's my only Grandpa. He gave me my first real pocket knife when I was twelve. He was the first man in my life who told me he was proud of me. He told me my dad was proud of me, too, back when my dad didn't know how to say it. He told my dad what a good girl I was even though I'd over-heated the tractor or done some other stupid thing my dad was angry about. ("You've got a good girl, there, Jim.") He thinks I'm strong, hardworking, dedicated, and honest. He thinks the best of me. I wish I could be half the woman Grandpa thinks I am.

Those are the things I wish I could say. But then again, he probably already knows.

Posted by LoWriter at December 19, 2005 08:39 AM