Some follow-up may be
required. Last weekend saw a trip to Wisconsin for my Grandmother's
memorial. Yes, she died back around New Year's, but the family made the
call (an overall wise one, in my opinion) to hold the memorial event with a lot
of notice, making it easier for people to come from far and wide, with the
added bonus of not needing to contend with last winter's unremitting frigidity.
Which was wonderful in its way, but which of course carried a certain amount of
grief, sadness, pain, and family agita (always a healthy dose of family agita).
And, because fate is
bitter and mocks us all, a few days before the trip, one of my friends from
growing up lost his battle with depression and killed himself. I can't
bring myself to call it luck, but the circumstance of being out there meant
that - while still prevented from attending his memorial,
I was able to pay my respects to his father and brother, and take said brother
out for drinks on a night when I think it's fair to say he could use some
out-of-the-house amusement, or at least distraction.
As if that weren't
enough (it was quite enough, thank you very much) my
extremely-robust-but-there-ain't-no-getting-around-it-OLD Grandfather, who
mourns in a way that I don't suppose anyone who hasn't been married for over 70
years can really identify with, had a couple health events of his own.
The first happened the day he arrived: after a 14-hour drive, he and Mom
stopped at my aunt's house for supper. On a trip to the bathroom he
stumbled, lost his balance, and fell into the tub - had to go to the emergency
room for X Rays. No real damage, but he scraped the hell out of his arms
so it was good he was in a place where he could get them bandaged by a
pro. Then, the day after the memorial, which was a celebration but still
heartbreaking, a group of us went out for breakfast and grandpa had a Transient
Ischemic Attack (TIA, sometimes imperfectly referred to as a mini-stroke) about
two-thirds of the way through his french toast. His 8-yr-old
great-granddaughter (my niece, shown feeding that calf in the last post) was
sitting right across from him, eating french toast of her own, and I have to
say she held it together remarkably well as I went over and got his attention,
helped ease him back to alertness, went through some of the "rule out a
for-reals stroke" steps, unhinged his fingers from his coffee cup, and got
him standing and out into the parking lot with my cousin Wally.
That fresh air did him
good right away, as he recovered from the overheated sweat he’d broken
into. But of course it also meant
another trip to the hospital, which he wanted about as much as a hole in the
head. Once we got him there, kicking and
screaming, the visit went about as well as it could have, and it only took a
small chunk out of what was going to be our last day in that part of the state
before he headed east with one of his daughters. And Cory and I headed to Madison to take care
of the understandably unhinged friend whose brother had died the week before.
So that happened. And believe it or not, I’m leaving out some
of the nastiest stuff. Now it’s Friday
the 13th and it’s raining. Ruby Dee died, almost exactly the same age as my Grandmother, and I’m listening to some Duke Ellington and we’re seeing Macbeth
tonight because fuck curses and fuck bad luck. Power poses all around.
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