42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I hate greeting cards. Someone is thinking up ways to express joy, congratulations or sorrow, illustrated with flowers or cakes or birds, with dreadful words, often rhyming.
I wish that more greeting cards came blank. I try whenever possible to find them, but I don’t think they make them in sympathy cards. Once, I wrote a letter, rather than buy a meaningless card to express caring and sorrow.

My family will tell you: I’m not likely to send cards. You will get a call or present, but not often cards. If I do send a card (or letter), it’s because I really care about you. For a very special occasion.

I went shopping for cards today, and cried while doing it. Normally trite sentiments cannot touch me.

And I’m writing this to more document how I feel today than to get sympathy. In fact, please don’t give me any. I got enough of that the last time I lost someone close. And it doesn’t do any good, and it doesn’t sound right, and it doesn’t make anybody feel any better.

My grandfather, Louis, died early today. It was a prolonged struggle with Alzheimers and what comes when you’re no longer a functioning person with independent thought.
It makes me very sad, and a little guilty, because I didn’t spend as much time with him when he was healthy, before he was diagnosed. And when he was put in a nursing home, I didn’t visit that often.
The last time I saw him was in December, when I returned to visit my family.

It was a depressing experience. Louis certainly didn’t recognize me, and I didn’t expect him to. I didn’t expect him to remember Brenda, his stepdaughter, my mother. He didn’t respond that well to his only living daughter, Kathy. In fact, he probably had no idea who she was. He was a little combative with her as she tried to feed him some sorbet, and swore at her. I touched his hand when I left and said I missed him, and loved him. And for a moment, I thought something had gotten through. His eyes, blue and confused, engaged mine, as I still had my hand on his old-people’s skin. OK, he said. And that was it. That was my goodbye. I think I kissed him, the smell of unwashed man drifting into my nose. I kept it together for my aunt’s sake, because she had to be there every week. She was always very upfront and matter-of-fact about the toll it took on her. And I certainly wasn’t much of a help, and was guilty of seeing him very seldom. And she has been asked to deal with a lot: the loss of her mother at the same age I lost my own, the loss of both sisters and finally the last one left, her father.

As terrible as it sounds, I think it was a mercy to my grandfather and aunt and my grandfather’s wife.
I spent a lot of time avoiding confronting his depressing disease while they dealt with it every day. I thought he’d always be there, waiting. Nowhere else to go.
And now I end up buying sympathy cards. I don’t think I can afford to go home, and I don’t think anyone expects me to. I don’t think I can do any good there.
I talked to my aunt and mouthed the words of meaningless sympathy, the ones I hate so much myself. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.
But I can’t do anything. Not from California, and not in Michigan. All I can do is send some cards and maybe some flowers.

That sums up my entire relationship, and the end of someone’s long life.
Grandpa Louis was always a strong, tall man in my little girl’s eyes. He had been a veteran, a pilot, a motorcycle lover. He had been an electrician, but when retirement couldn’t keep him down, he went back to work.

I remember asking him about his tattoos once, when I was very young.
Grandpa, what’s that on your arms?
Well, I was taking a nap one day, and someone snuck into the bedroom and drew all over my arms.
Grandma’s sharp voice cut across the room like a knife. Louis!
They’re tattoos, honey.

I remember a strong man, a tall man, a man with very little white hair, and striking blue eyes. I remember his voice.

I didn’t spend enough time with him as an adult, and I knew this would happen. We all die, and as I said, this is probably a mercy to both him and the rest of the family.

I had a dream several years ago, after doing an interview with a man who had lost both his parents in a plane crash. Something he said resonated with me, and carried over into my dream: You never know what’s going to happen, so make sure you tell your loved ones how they feel about them. Never take them for granted. So then I dreamed my grandfather had died and I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye.
So I called him up, and asked to make sure he was all right, and told him the advice I’d just been given. So I want you to know I love you, OK?
That was probably the last time I’d talked to him when he was still fine, not exhibiting signs of Alzheimers. So perhaps that was the proper goodbye.

So I go back to the greeting cards and struggle to find something nonreligious, and something that doesn’t sound trite. All I can find are cards that say sorry or deepest sympathy. Or they just end up mentioning God. I know that my family finds comfort in God, but even now, I won’t cave in.
Frustrated, sometimes crying, I finally pick two, and make my way to the counter. Oblivious to the fact I’ve just been blubbering in the back, the clerk cheerfully rings me up while having a side conversation with a fellow employee. Today is any other day. People die every day. And I don’t need any sympathy anyway.

My dad called to tell me. All I hear is his voice on the answering machine, and I rush to call him back without listening to the message. My father and I don’t talk on the phone much, so it’s usually important.
My dad tells me that it was for the best, and that he was your grandfather, but he wasn’t, you know? I think he’s trying to keep me from crying on the phone. Somehow, it works. Our conversation is short, because I want to spare him that, and I wait a while before calling my aunt to express my sympathies. How do you express sorrow? You can’t. You can only say sorry, and that’s never enough, or the wrong thing to say.

So in the end… just give me some cards with meaning. Don’t force me to desperately look at every card, hoping to find one that doesn’t repel me.
But it’s the thought that counts, right?