Walker

Something that I have been thinking a lot about recently is my grandfather. I'm really lucky to still have all four of my grandparents, and three of them are incredibly healthy for octogenarians. But my mom's father is not doing very well. I'm the oldest grandchild and couldn't pronounce "Grandpa" when I was little, so ever since he's been "Dampa" instead. Dampa was diagnosed with diabetes a while back and then dementia a few years ago, and ever since he has slowly declined both in mental and physical health. My grandparents live in the small town of Annisquam, Massachusetts, about an hour north of Boston. It's hard to visit them very often, because of the distance and because quite frankly, it is so sad to see Dampa that way.

Dampa is no longer the strikingly handsome soldier that my grandmother married sixty years ago, after he came back from World War II. She no longer lovingly calls him "Walk" instead of Walker, and he doesn't pretend to pick fights with her just so that they can share a private you-know-I-chide-you-because-I-love-you smile afterwards. He's not the salesman who could sweet-talk anyone into buying whatever it was he was selling. He's not the husband who helped her raise four children, not the overwhelmingly proud father who walked his three daughters down the aisle, not the dad after whom his son was named. He's not the grandfather who taught me to build sandcastles and play gin rummy and eat lobsters.

Alex and I went up to Annisquam this past summer to visit my grandparents before...well, I just wanted Alex to meet them. Dampa was sitting in his large leather recliner watching a black and white movie on tv. I hugged him and he smelled like medicine and old sweaters, and he didn't know who I was until my aunt nearby pointed to the framed pictures of all the grandchildren on the wall. Our names had been written carefully in bright marker underneath each smiling face, and as my aunt said, "You know Virginia!" the nod that he gave was contradicted by the empty look in his eyes.

It's so hard to see my grandfather that way, but it's even harder to see the way that it affects my mom. She tries to hide how much she's hurting. She rarely brings him up, but when she does it absolutely breaks my heart. She goes up to Annisquam every few months to see my grandmother, and about a month ago they decided that it was finally time to put Dampa in a nearby nursing home. I can't imagine how difficult the decision was, but the simple truth was that my grandmother couldn't take care of him anymore. It hurt her shoulders, it hurt her back, and more than anything else it hurt her soul to see him like that every single day and know that everything she was doing just wasn't enough.

I wish there was something I could do for my mother, other than be there for her. I've always tried to protect my parents. When I was in elementary school, Mom cut her hand open on a broken platter and had to have multiple surgeries to fix the damage in her fingers. A few months after it happened, she and Dad were downstairs after Sarah and I had gone to bed and somehow the nerves and ligaments tore again. For months and months and months after that, I would creep down to the top of the stairs after they put us to bed and sit there in my bathrobe and pajamas, out of sight, just in case something bad happened again. I believed that somehow I could protect them--especially Mom--from another accident if I was nearby. And I still feel the same way now. I know that sitting at the top of the stairs won't protect her like I used to think it would, but just being there for her means the world.

I am so excited to go up to Cleveland this weekend to see Alex. I need to see Alex. Not only have we not seen each other for three weeks (long distance relationships are really crappy sometimes), but I have to get out of here. Hit the open road. Have a change of scenery and clear my head. Alex is the one person in the world who I can talk to about absolutely absolutely anything, and it's like my body breathes a sigh of relief every time I see him. With him, I know that everything will be okay. Dampa will be okay in the nursing home, where he's getting the treatment and care he needs. My grandmother will be okay now that she is finally able to live again. My mom will be okay, and though inevitably she will lose the father she adores, she is surrounded by so many people who love her unconditionally and can support her through it all. And I know that I will be okay too.