July brought with it the death of my beloved grandfather. My mom and I had been planning for months to bring him back here and help him move into a lovely VA Residential Home. I had been gathering documents from his birth certificate to his military records, buying things to make him feel at home and helping my mom get her place ready to have him until a room opened up.
We had just seen him in March for almost a week where we convinced him to go along with our plan. However in true papa form the second we left the house he changed his mind. He had not been answering his phone and hanging up on us when we did reach him. The whole situation was very sad.
March, 2024
We knew he had COVID a few weeks before we arrived because his doctors office had called my mom to inform her that he was sick. She called an ambulance and the hospital told her he tested positive for COVID. He had never been vaccinated thanks to his conservative nut job of a doctor. The hospital wouldn't admit him, despite his advanced 95 years because he had no fever and his blood oxygen levels were good. My aunt had been able to speak to him and send him a care package of food and medicine. She last spoke to him a few days before we arrived.
Although not speaking to him on the phone, my mom and I had been sending him letters and cards. She had also been in contact with the manager of his complex where he rented a small townhouse for the last 18 years. He knew we were coming to take him back with us and what time and day we would be there.
After a full day of driving and a good rest we arrived at his house optimistic and expecting to take him out to breakfast at his favorite waffle house. Instead we found the door bolted shut. I assumed that he had done it to keep us from taking him home with us. Like a child who locks their door when there's something they don't want to do. I even swore I heard him come and check the locks and wiggle the door handle, making sure it was good and shut.
We called the manager to have him unlock it, but it had been locked from the inside and he was unable to open it. We called out, looked for an open window and tried to talk to him. I called 911 when none of that worked. The police tried to talk to him through the door. They went around looking for an opening as well. Then they pretty much gave up and said it was up to the manager and us if we wanted to break the door in. We did.
July, 2024 - The manager breaking down the door.
The cop drove off and we coaxed the timid manager into action. An hour after we arrived he knocked the door in. I was the first to enter, calling "Papa" as I looked for him. I thought he might be hiding, or have even taken off out the back when he heard us knocking the door in. People can be unpredictable when stressed. Then I turned the corner and saw him dead.
He was laying on his bedroom floor on his back, expired from COVID. I saw right away that it had been a very violent, horrible death. His whole house looked like the scene of a horror movie. Tissues everywhere, food left out, cupboards open, unopened mail and packages. But he had also been packing. Two large suitcases were on the couch with clothes methodically folded up and placed inside. Important papers were strewn on his dining table with a satchel next to them. Some toiletries also placed inside along coins he had been saving for my son since before his birth.
He had been packing to come back with us.
It was beyond heart breaking. I choked out to my mom and the manager that I thought he was dead, pointing to the bedroom. They ran in and confirmed the worst. He had been dead for a few days. I'll never forget that scene or the smell in his house. It was the first time I'd smelled death like that before, even though I'd seen a few corpses at funerals.
I called the police back out. Then my husband. "I just wanted pancakes!" I sobbed to him. Burbling what had happened. My aunt was next who I had been texting the situation to. The police showed up quickly so I didn't have long to talk. My composure regained, my mom and I took care of business. While waiting for the funeral home to send their people out to get my grandfather, my mother and I sat in her Jeep and talked. And cried. And talked some more. Thank goodness we were together through this. It wasn't anything a single person should ever go through.
The apartment manager had long high tailed it, no doubt stunned by the scene we all encountered. The men carried Papa out in a blue velvet bag. He would have approved of the color scheme and fabric choice, but not the zipper that went all the way down. He was a "half zipper man."
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When I was growing up I spent most summers with my grandparents. My mom worked like a Spartan to give me a good life. I adored my grandmother and loved spending time with her at their mobile home park.
Me and my "Nana" - around 1977
My grandfather was a truck driver for a lumber company. He worked long days hauling lumber up and down California. His massive hands were always rough. Always cut and bruised. He frequently had a black or missing fingernail. I found him gruff and scary. When he wasn't exhausted from work he was stinking up the living room with his feet, enjoying the "biggest piece of chicken." He also loved to tease me.
Scary big tough guy.
Teasing was big in our family and my papa loved to get in on it. He'd trap me in turnstiles, grab my nana's hand and say "MY NANA!" Till I shrieked that she was mine. I loved him, but I can't say I liked him back then. We did share an interest in nature and bonded over watching shows like Wild Kingdom and Miss America. "None of them are as pretty as Toni" he'd boast to my grandmother. I'd sit there beaming and drawing.
It wasn't until my cousin was born and he had retired that we started to become close. When my son was born that just sealed the deal. My son was the first boy in my family for many many generations. My grandpa was at the end of the day a very "man's man."
He spoiled my son in ways I never knew he was capable of. It was beautiful to see them together. Even as a baby. I felt so happy for them to have had the close relationship that we didn't have till I was an adult.
My grandparents loved living by the sea.
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My papa was a curious person and enjoyed learning new things, though he didn't seek out new things much himself. As my mom says "we are all of us a contradiction."
He was completely devoted to my grandmother, his only girlfriend in his life and the only woman he'd ever kissed. He cared for her until her death of dementia two years prior. He could be angry and selfish and he wasn't a great father. He never drank or smoked and was a "born again Christian." He read the Bible daily and both loved and raged at God.
He was a simple man who loved the ocean as much as he loved nana. And waffles. He really loved waffles.
Papa at the ocean. Around 1972.
It's hard for me to think of him and not see him stretched out in "his chair" next to "his TV tray" with the biggest glass mug full of ice and Dr. Pepper. A full stein's worth. Not that either of them knew what a stein was. He'd sit like that from the time he got home from work till bed time. Relaxing and watching TV. "Hee Haw," The News, Carol Burnett, Nature Shows, he wasn't picky.
Church on Sunday was a must. Eating out in a restaurant after was my favorite. I was always allowed to pick what I ate. I was known for my ability to put away copious amounts of spaghetti, so he started calling me "spaghetti chopper." He would lean over and cut the food on my plate for me till I was 42 and told him it was ok and I could manage it. Then when I became disabled he took up the practice again.
He was kind and I enjoyed seeing his softer side. He cried easily, like everyone else in my family. I often saw him cry in church or over hearing of another person's troubles. I loved that about him. He could be silly and playful just like my nana. I think that's one strong thing that kept them together.
Fitness, health and strength were vital to him. They would buy vitamins when no one else was doing it. If my grandmother read of some health kick they should be doing in Reader's Digest they would get right on it. She'd fall off the wagon fast and give in to sweets, but he'd keep right on with the fish, vegetables and vitamins. Papa loved to show me ocean creatures or something creepy that he'd caught. I think 99% of my "show and tell" items came from him. A dead bat and rattlesnake tail are the standouts in my memory.
Until the day he died I'd never seen him without a hand grip exerciser. In fact, two were laying on the floor next to his dead body leaving quite the puzzle. Was he using them in bed while dying of COVID? It's not out of the question. Even a police officer remarked on it. "What's with the hand grippers?" she asked. "He loved them" was all I said.
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My mother and I spent the rest of that week taking care of his business. Closing his bank account, his mail delivery, going through the house for whatever we were going to keep, having him cremated. When we picked up his ashes the day before we were to leave he was even still warm.
Working on all the details with my mom. The two of us were amazing.We scattered some of his ashes in the ocean at his favorite beach. A place he had walked a thousand times and I had often walked with him. A lone pelican flew along the bay putting on quite a show for us. Then its mate came and joined him just as the sun was going down. It was magical and inspired the memorial tattoo I was to get when I returned back home.
The place they never wanted to leave.Grandad did come back home with us, just not in the way any of us thought he would. But he also stayed in the place that he and my grandmother loved so much and didn't want to leave. He had it both ways.
