I never knew my grandfather. He had to have been a good man, because my dad is a good man. I am told that he was marvelous with his hands, that he liked to laugh, and that he was kind.
I was still very young when grandad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. I have vauge memories of he and grandma Joan's old house in connecticut. Sleep overs. Late night games of Heart. And Grandfather's room, a foreboding place that I was forced to enter and pay homage to a man I barely knew.
I was scared of him back then. I didn't know what Alzheimer's was, not really anyways, and; as only children can do, I appreciated the stigma without the cause. Later in life, I remember hearing my grandmother tell stories of how he would ask her for breakfast three times after having already eaten. Towards the end he reportedly threatened her with a butter knife, unable to remember his own wife.
The commercial is what made me think of him. Some medicine that possibly could maybe reduce the symptoms. It was the way the commercial played out that had me thinking of grandpa. Watching the elderly actor portray a man struggling to keep his identity, seeing his equally elderly wife loving tend to him, it was all too easy to transpose grandfather and grandmother into the scene. Within a minute, I found myself crying - a startling event, as I am not prone to tears, and have always been frustrated at my lack of ability to cry when feelings might otherwise warrent it. In that moment this actor was my grandfather, and the commercial a call to remember his terrible struggle during the final years.
Robert Falconer. My namesake. There is a power to names, a spiritual connectivity that cannot be denied. In my living room back home there sits a picture of the three Robert Falconers - my grandfather, my father, and me. How strange that it took a drug commercial to remind me of this connection, and to turn my attention back to the man after whom I was named.
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I'm studying to be a writer. And thus, I occasionally feel the urge to write. This is YOUR chance to study to be a reader. In conclusion: Power to the people.
5 comments:
Robbie,
Strange to see your message timed as it was - I just got home from a post-funeral devotional service for a departed father & grandpa in one of the nearby Baha'i families - although the deceased was a Christian.
I met the man only once for a few seconds. He had just started extreme chemotherapy for a final battle with cancer, with very low chances he would live more than several months. He died early last week right next to downtown Richmond in a freak traffic accident where a trailer rolled over on his small car.
Scene switch: Your mother and I sit in a little brick church way out in the farm country of piedmont Virginia. A strong flock of evangelical Christians prevail and several rise from the audience to deliver testimony: he was a strong man, a hard man, a Marine Corps vet from Viet Nam, BUT very loving, constantly sacrificing for his God, his family, his neighbors, his farming way of life.
However, a small number present have guarded faces. They whisper afterwards that this was not exactly the man they knew. "Hard man" was almost too kind. His first wife was present too - mother of the departed's first children, grandmother to several of his grandchildren. She marveled that hardly anyone said a word to her in recognition of who she was - his second wife was totally the center of attention. She said to us quietly over a post-service paper plate of coldcuts & cookies "no one wants to here my version of how he really was".
Your grandpa was a bit like that. You heard, felt and assume that he was a kind man, but at times he was a very hard, unfeeling, hurtful man. His immediate family (your grandma, me, my sister) could tell you stories that would shock you a bit.
You know what, I think the contrast between what we would prefer to remember about others and talk about at their funerals (good things)- things we hope others would speak at our own eulogies, vs. those sad "other stories" that might be told about our frail, imperfect and sometimes downright dark natures - that is what defines the human struggle.
I am that man you call good; I am also at times a bad man. You remember the good and I smile. My dad provided me with many precious moments of love and connection, and yet I witnessed some really awful, shocking performances.
Hopefully I learned, and you are too, about this crucial struggle we all must wage, but with a conviction that we simply must improve day by day. Often it is NOT pretty. I've had some real bad days - so did my dad, so will you.
We cannot forget the bad things because they are the root of salvation. If we forge through them maybe our kids and friends will stand in review of our deeds at the last, and say "blah blah blah - but I know he loved me and we loved him."
If we can achieve that, the rest matters only a little.
PS It's "vague".
This post and your father's comment were really touching. :-)
Beautiful post. I've thought recently about how truly twisted this disease is. The memories seem to be gone, taken away. But what we read in the Writings about memories being a spiritual thing is something that really comforts me. The thought that even the loss of memory is a temporal thing.
Robbie and Rob,
These are powerful and evocative posts from you both and I thank you for the sharing. Your posts left me thinking about my own father who passed away in December 1990. Keep up the good work Robbie!
Sherry
Thank you for writing this! I haven't really found people who want to share their family's experience. My grandmother is living with us right now, she has alzheimer's. My mom and I have long talks about the disease, the character, and the soul. Sometimes it's so clear that she's struggling, and at other times it's unclear whether it's 'her' or not. She still has an incredible sense of humor though.
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