A Message to the Future

I've got a couple of thoughts that work together...If this were a chapter of my novel, I could be very explicit and tie it all together--I promise. But I want to record these thoughts and let you draw the conclusions.

I've read a couple of shocking things in my own blog--they are all pretty much true, without an exaggeration of my role in the events. I think everyone has these tangents to global significance, but some of us acknowledge and/or claim them.

A friend of mine spoke about being alone with your own thoughts--it seemed like a pretty trite thing, but when I thought about it a little more deeply, I realized that I occupy my conscious thoughts almost constantly--reading, listening to music, talk radio, activities, etc. Pretty much all day. So I took a couple of days and turned off the radio and spent a few quiet moments and let my mind wander. Here's what it wandered to in a general sense: Reading Hemingway as a teenager, I was struck by the simplicity of structure and content. The work came to symbolize an idealistic world view to me. When I read it in my '20's, I recognized more of the cynicism and elements of Realism that I had previously not seen (cynicism about war, government, beaurocracy, etc.). The same scenes which seemed pure and idealistic took on a twinge of conviction of inevitable gloom. Recently, reading the same work again, I saw the characters' personal struggles to determine how their moral values fit within this cynical world view--this itself is a form of idealsim. My view of the literature had come full circle, with a much deeper meaning and conclusion. Well, not that the philosphy ever concludes itself in his work...

I really wish that my grandfather had been a larger than life figure in my life. I like the idea of a booming presence which commands respect and exudes self-control and confidence. But it wasn't to be--my grandfather was a flawed man.

He like to drink and smoke and swear, often all three at the same time (I saw him one time flick ash on himself, causing him to spill his drink--he yelled out "shit!") He lost control of his temper often and over the most meaningless things. He gambled and was bad with money and didn't seem to care too much about his kids and grandkids and seemed awfully selfish sometimes. He was sometimes bigoted and proud and judgemental.

I was disappointed with my grandfather, as I was disappointed with most adults in my life, when I turned twenty. Our family had fallen on some rough financial times--pretty devestating times actually, and I had been out supporting myself, working my way through college by holding down a full-time job. I was bitter that this caused me to get thrown off track from going to medical school, which I felt I was destined to do. It was during this time that my grandfather was diagnosed with the cancer which ended up taking his life within a year or so. Toward the end, he was incoherent and died in a hospital bed at home.

At some point toward the "beginning of the end", I was summoned to visit my Grandpa at home. He was swollen from medication and had lost all of his hair, but this was the last time we had a coherent conversation.

For a variety of reasons, most likely my mortal fear of being the target of a tirade, we had mainly had superficial conversations throughout my whole life ('How's school going?')--I avoided any deep, controversial subject because the tension was too much to take.

I wish I could say that I seized the moment and that this last conversation was a deep soul-cleansing talk about the important matters of life. It wasn't. But I remember him looking deep into my eyes--deeper than ever before. His blue eyes caught mine in an unashamed stare for several minutes, and he told me that he was really proud of me and everything I had "done". It seems so funny now--what had I done at that point? He also told me that he was proud of "all of the children--all of your brothers and your sister", and asked me to make sure that they knew that he loved them and was proud of them. I'm not sure I've ever passed that on to them. It was serious business, and we both cried and I hugged him while he sat on the bed, unable to get up.

I was remembering the way he looked at me--he really looked at me with all his energy and attention, almost as if he was debating whether or not to bring something up. Was he debating whether or not to bring up the details of my biological father, a taboo subject in our family? Did he want to talk about his strained relationship with my mother? Did he have regrets about ignoring signs of child abuse in our home that he had previously talked to me about? Missing several birthdays and holidays while I waited for them by the door--missing them because they got drunk and ended up doing something else? Was he going to apologize? Explain himself? I certainly didn't expect him to do so, and wasn't there to seek either of these outcomes.

Looking back with a more seasoned eye, I realize that my Grandpa had more to say, but couldn't form the right words when he realized that the message was impossible to deliver. It was too late to start talking on such a level, and he couldn't find a way to initiate that relationship. I think the struggle that I saw in his eye was a mixture of frustration and regret and love and fear. Knowing what I know now, there was plenty that could have been said. With no disrespect intended to the deceased, I hope I'm man enough to say those things when the time comes.

When the words failed, a simple "I love you" and a hug sufficed--an outcome which seemed idealistic at the time.