“Horrific Choices” Blog #6
Everything we do is based on a choice…...
I know one truth that we can all agree on and that is “we all just have today”.
If I choose to sit with myself and go back over all the years that bring me to
this point in time, events that stand out the most are the tragic times.
It’s funny how death can be the teacher in making you stop and see truth..
I was 23 years ol age when I would come face to face with death twice in the
very same year. Arizona was so amazing in April.
The air was filled with a perfume that only the desert flower blossoms could claim.
I was visiting my grandpa and my aunts for Spring break from college.
My grandfather had already reached the revered old age of 96 and he was still going
strong. This was my mothers family and they were hard-working Germans who had
come over from Europe when my grandfather and grandmother first married.
They raised eight children in Minnesota and were in the restaurant business for as long
as I had been alive. I loved being around them, there was always exciting conversation
and even as my grandpa approached his 97th year, I marveled how my two old
spinster aunts fussed over every meal, especially the morning breakfast. The table had
been set with a white linen table cloth napkins and center piece of flowers. of course.
The cooked prunes were set above the while china plate and the oatmeal simmered,
hot on the stove with egg coffee brewing. My aunts were hustling about as my grandpa
came down the stairs. Dressed in his pressed, pleated trousers and starched while shirt
with the sleeves slightly rolled up, you’d think he was off to work. He shuffled past me
and I inhaled his energy of old spice. Smiling at me, he sat down. “How are you feeling
today grandpa”? I said. He looked over at me playfully. “With my fingers Barbie”, I
laughed. This man was my mentor for life,. Even in his nineties, age did not define him.
I always felt safe in my grandpas presence. Now the aroma of all the breakfast courses
caught my attention once again. There was an omelet with bacon coming and
homemade cinnamon rolls hot out of the oven. All was as it should be, because every
day was like this one. With breakfast finished and the late mornings conversation
coming to a close, my grandpa told us he was going back upstairs for a short rest.
The morning had seen a late start for all of us. Now I watched, as my aunts no
sooner cleared the table, and were talking about the menu for tonights
dinner. My cousin was visiting like me, and with clear sunny skies and a hot afternoon
ahead, we quickly left for the swimming pool. I was drifting off to sleep when my aunt
came running out to the pool. “Come inside kids quickly, and Barbie don’t go upstairs til
we tell you1”. I remember thinking, what a strange comment. So of course, when I
walked into the house, I saw both my aunts crying and staring up the staircase.
I ran up to my grandpas bedroom at once, and there he was. The while chenille spread
was pulled back just enough for his head to rest on a down feathered pillow.
The sun was shining thru his bedroom window. Grandpas glasses were on the bedside
table with his bible opened. I looked over at my grandpa stretched out in the clothes
I had just seen him in. Everything was so eerily quiet. Less than an hour ago we were
laughing together. Now his hands were folded over on his chest and he lay there.
I gingerly reached out, touching his nose and it felt ice cold. I quickly pulled back.
Yet, the expression on his face was amazing and so comforting. He appeared to be at
such peace. I remember thinking, “Wow, what a way to go, what a way to leave this
earth. Just go upstairs and take a nap. Of course, I thought right away how much I
would miss him, I would miss him terribly. My grandpa was just always there in the
background, he was everything to me. Still, he had lived a very long life. He almost
reached one hundred and was fully functioning. His heath, for the most part, was
excellent and his mind was completely in tact. This man had such a wonderful sense
of humor. Watching him over the years I lived at his house, gave me great memories
now of seeing my Grandpa in his chair, smoking his pipe of cherry blend tobacco, while
laughing hard at the Red Skelton Show on television. I believe his enormous varied
interests, eating good food that was always prepared for him, and drinking very little,
kept him healthy year after year. Even after my grandma died, there was no mention of
any senior home. Grandpa would remain living out his days in his big white colonial
with his daughters that never married. From the giant garden he cultivated all summer
long and all the grandchildren visiting his summer home up North. Watching and
reading the news from around the world with restaurant tabletalk discussions nightly.
All the daily drama and yet never taking part, just listening. This is what really kept
my grandpa going. I was able to peacefully let him go now and at the same time,
understand he lived a very good life. All of this took place in the month of April.
In October of that same year I lost my father at the ripe old age of 52.
Through choices of his own, my father had become a raging, abusive, sick
alcoholic. As long as I had been alive, this was the only way I came to know him.
This man had a wife and three children. Yet the priorities my father chose, to rule
his life, were oh so sad. My father smoked two unfiltered packs of camel cigarettes
every single day. This man drank a case of beer and a pint of whiskey every single day.
He lived with four other people in a house where, the terror and horrific behavior was so
acute that never a day went by when there was not sadness, chaos and grief.
I moved over to my grandfathers house by the time I was twelve years old.
No one really seemed to care or even miss me. It was one less mouth to feed.
This was a very hard choice for me to make, a horrific choice. I was afraid to go and
leave my mother and little brothers at home with my father. Yet, the verbal abuse
I was nightly taking and the fights were keeping me up and affecting my school
work, and my mental ;health. me My aunts had begged my mother to leave. She would
never listen. Somehow I realized that I needed to be strong internally. I needed to save
myself. After I did this, ofcouirse I went back and forth fighting a guilty conscience.
Thru my highchsool years I lived at my grandpas house. I wound up graduating from a
good school and going on to college because of my aunts generosity. Life is filled with
choices. One day at a time. My father? One day his body just caved in. I was living
and working in Arizona now. I had not been home since Christmas. My aunt alled
and told me that my fathers body had just caved in. She said that his mouth was
filled with “spider tumors” and his body was loaded with cancer. He did not die
peacefully and I was not there to tell him I forgave him. At this point, I did not.
I ask you this today: “Is there a choice you need to make for your own good
mental health, or have you put it off”?
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