A Privilege
November 11th, 2002 | by Tony Steidler-Dennison |The Red Hat 8.0 install blogcast got sidetracked in a very tough way today. It’ll happen sometime this week. I’m just not sure when.
I received an email from my mom this morning, noting that the health of my 84-year-old grandfather, living in a home in Des Moines, had taken a turn for the worst. Just after posting the first installment of the blogcast, I called her to find out if I needed to head to Des Moines from Iowa City. She left it up to me, but didn’t sound too optimistic about how the night might end. I left Iowa City around 3:45 and got to Des Moines just after 6:00.
It was none too early, as it turned out. Just before 9:00, as I held one hand and my aunt held the other, my Grandpa passed away. He’d been struggling to breathe all day and by 8:00, we were sure that the respiration was a purely autonomic response. His final breath was a quick sharp gasp. He’d closed his eyes for the first time since I’d arrived. They opened slowly as the breathing just stopped. We held on, held his hand, and held our own breath knowing before the nurse arrived that he’d let go and simply passed.
In the turbulent years before I turned five, I idolized my Grandpa. He was a fun guy who did fun things. He made tape recordings on an enormous reel-to-reel in his basement and laughed endlessly at the funny things his ham of a grandson said with a mike in his hand. He tinkered with electronics in a basement workshop that always smelled of particle board and solder. I still think of that workshop as I struggle with the wiring in the telescopes I now build. He had a shortwave radio on which we’d listen to broadcasts from Spain and Africa and points unknown, strange gibberish that sounded at once funny and exotic. It was my first inkling that there really was a world outside of Newton, Iowa.
For all the fun we had, and for all the seeds of insight that he planted, he did two things that were far more important than he may have ever realized. He filled the role of a stable male in my life, until my mother remarried and I acquired a stepfather. And he sheltered me from the turbulence that was roaring inside his own family. He’d stood strong through the deaths of two grandchildren, through the rocky marriage and tough divorce of his oldest daughter, my mother. He was determined to protect me, his oldest surviving grandchild, from that pain. Fun time with Grandpa was safe time. Whether it was a “party” in the living room, complete with blanched peanuts and 7-Up, or Turtle-waxing his latest Chrysler to a mirror finish, he kept me at arms length from the hard blue edge of life.
And I loved him for it. At night, after a day in the factory, he’d sit in his easy chair, one leg draped casually across the other knee. With the short chunky legs of a three-year-old, I tried and tried to emulate his posture. He’d laugh out loud when I just couldn’t get or keep the leg crossed, and ask me when I was going to be a “big guy” like him. God knows I wanted to be, and I kept trying until I succeeded.
My Grandpa was also a tough man. He hit his formulative years just as the debris cloud of the Depression rolled across the country. He worked from an early age, spent time in the Navy during World War II, and took all the work he could physically handle after. In the late 40s, he went to work at Maytag Plant 1 in Newton. He’d spend nearly the next thirty years there, building washing machines and dryers and dishwashers. I don’t think he ever liked the work. I also don’t think he ever gave his career satisfaction much thought. He had four kids to feed and clothe and Maytag provided him with both a livable income and security. He wasn’t a brawler, but he was a rare breed of tough man, putting aside his own personal satisfaction for what he knew to be best for his family. He knuckled under and went in to work in the hard environment of the factory for twenty-eight years because it was the right thing to do.
I’d love to believe that my Grandpa is where I found my sense of humor. His was dry, sardonic, and always delivered with a perfectly straight face. He understood that the odd juxtaposition of a verbal jab or a joke dropped into a conversation without facial cues made the receiver stop and think. Whether or not they actually got the joke mattered little. He achieved his effect time after time in the delivery alone. He was, in the words of his generation, a “kidder” and more than a little ornery about it.
I loved my Grandpa. For as long as his faculites would allow it, he never gave up fighting for and protecting his family. When his oldest daughter’s second marriage collapsed in rubble, he stepped in to help pick up the pieces. When his oldest granchild descended into a seemingly bottomless whirlpool of drugs and alcohol, he held the daughter’s hand and delivered tough love to the grandchild on the rare occasion when he could do so face to face. As much as I hated hearing them at the time, I’m not sure I ever thanked him for those words.
And his quiet love of family never faded. Just after moving back to Iowa from Texas, we visited their house in Chariton, spending the night. It was the first time he’d met his great-grandaughter, our profoundly handicapped angel now fourteen years old. He held her hand and talked to her, exactly as he talked to his other grandkids. At the annual family reunion, he did the same year after year, taking the special time to make sure she knew both who he was and, by his actions, how much he loved her.
So tonight, I had the privilege of seeing him off. The twin blades of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s had shaved the man to nothing, both physically and mentally. I held his hand and told him it was okay to go. I told him he’d done his job of sheltering and protecting us well enough that we’d be alright with him gone. That he didn’t have to suffer any more on our account. I told him without tears. He wasn’t big on tears. In the end, he heeded the voices of his family and just let go.
Painful, yes. At this moment, excruciatingly so. But I can’t think of a higher privilege than to share the last moments of life with someone who’s given their life to their offspring. It was my duty, my debt and my honor to hold his hand, to speak those words of comfort, and to see him off to a better place.
28 Responses to “A Privilege”
By Chris Elmes on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
A very moving portrait of a man who was very very important in your life
I held my mothers hand as she passed away 11 years ago. I was 24 at the time, my little brother was 16. It was the hardest and most painful thing I ever went through, and yet I there was nowhere else I would rather have been. She was on a morphine feed to deaden the pain from the cancer that had spread through her body so her conscious / lucid moments were few, but the last thing I said that I know she recognised was “I love you” - she recognised it because she squeezed my hand (I still well up over this). A few hours later she passed away, exactly as you described
Grieve for his passing, celebrate his life and hold your memories dear
By Chris Baldrey on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Everyone of us here, I am sure, wishes to offer our thoughts and prayers to you and your family at this time.
Take care my friend, and be with the ones you love and care for.
By RIchard on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
I can understand, I watched my mother die in a hospital bed when I was 15…hardly seems like 9 years ago now…
It is kind of ironic, when she died all of those people came to express condolences and I remember thinking how it didn’t make me feel any better, but it is the official response form others in this kind of thing. So I will fall into it to. I am all sorry for you loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.
By Kreg Steppe on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
I am sorry to hear about your Grandfather, and I am sorry for your loss. I have lost both of my grandfathers, and I understand to a degree how you feel.
I feel fortunate that I personally knew them both.
You obviously have great memories from him…and you sound fortunate as well.
By Robert Sterbal on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
I am very sorry for your loss. Your grandfather continues on in the hearts of the the people who knew him.
By Denis on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Tony, I am deeply sorry for you and for your family. It sounds like your grandfather was a great man. I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers.
By Eric Q on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Beautiful. Very moving tribute to a man who’s self-sacrifice and strength typified his generation’s values. We would all do well to consider your words and how they apply to those we love who are still around for us to thank.
Thank you for including this link in Penguin Shell.
By Ricky Taylor on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Tony my deepest sympathy goes to you and your family during this time of loss. I know that no words can comfort you duing this time. I know that you are in the thoughts and prayers of all who read the Penguin Shell.
By Lee Glaszczak on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Tony,
I follow you articles with great interest.
I am sorry to learn of your grandfather’s death. I was deeply moved by your tribute to your grandfather. Im am a grandfather of precious grand-sons and grand-dauthers.
I would hope that I would be good enough and strong enough to emulate the actions of your grandfather toward his family. He must have had a BIG Heart full of love.
May God bless you and all the family and give you peace and comfort at this time of sorrow.
God Bless,
Lee Glaszczak
By Nick on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Tony:
The very thoughtfully written tribute to your grandfather is wonderful. The grandfather that you looked up to and respected so much reminds me almost to a spitting image of my own grandfather. He was also a WWII vet and served his time for many years afterward mostly as a farmer. Seemingly unenjoyable, he took great pride in what he did and loved his family very much even with his very dry and sarcastic sense of humor.
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
By Juan Goro on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Tony,
Your words are really moving; the description you make has reminded me of some tough moments in my life, and with that in mind I am afraid all I can say is just: I am sorry.
You say you used to listen to an old short-wave radio with your grandpa, tuning broadcasts from Spain. Well, today somebody in Spain has “tuned in your broadcast” and has shared your feelings in one of those strange moments in life. Take care.
By Jo Dunning on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
What a wonderful tribute - i have no memories of a grandfather at all - and reading what you have written and shared of yours is poignant for me - thank you for sharing - God bless you and your family.
By xmonk on Nov 11, 2002 | Reply
Just today I was told what I knew was coming, and as it turns out, I wasn’t ready. Back surgery - it happens everyday I suppose, but this is the first time it’s happened to me.
So here I am, the bed and sleep miles away, zoning out on the web, keeping the worries at bay. And with a stringing of the most emotional words I’ve heard in some time, you’ve knocked me out of my self-centerend stupor.
Thanks for sharing your Grandfather with us Tony, I hope it helped you as well as it’s helped all of us. The world is that much poorer, for they no longer make men of his caliber, it would seem.
And I wouldn’t worry. Whether or not you thanked him for the honest words in your time of struggle, he knows.
By Jeremy Naylor on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
I’ve lost both of my Grandfathers, one to old age and strokes and the other one to Parkinsons (stupid blimmin thing), so I know how you must feel.
God bless you and your family Tony.
By Mary V. Jones on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Sending Love, Light, and Peace…
and Gratitute for your hard work, especially during these trying times…It is my hope that you will take some time for yourself…we’ll still be here waiting to dine on the juicy morsels of your Penguin wisdom, and of course, the characteristic humor inspired by Grandpa…..
*Shine On*
*-m-*
By Dave Richardson on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Our thoughts are with you.
By Jerry Robles de Medina on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Toni,
All the best in those dark days.
Jerry
By Eric on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Tony,
Your notes about your feelings towards your Grandpa touched me deeply. I barely remember my Grandpa, as I too entered the “whirlpool of drugs and alcohol” when he was alive. As a recovering alcoholic/addict I am just beginning to learn how to convey my feelings, and am working on starting my own blog to improve those skills.
Your story motivates me to be the best father and grandfather I can (yes, I’m a bit older than you), and convey my experiences to help my children grow.
By Daniel Isaac on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Tony,
Thank you for sharing such a tough moment with us. When my father passed away he was on vacation in CA. I was at home in NY. I wish I could have been there with him. Your writing help me understand that I was there in a way. Take all the time you need we will all wait.
Dan
By Greg Hicks on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
I lost my grandfather to Alzheimers a little over 4 years ago. He was gone, except for brief moments, long before he physically left us, but his spirit was always there. He was a tough old guy who also sacrificed virtually everything for his family. He was also a simple man who managed to put your problems into perspective with just a few words. Reading your tribute to your grandfather brought back all those feelings from years ago when I lost mine. And I hope that one day I can emulate my grandfather enough to receive even half of the tribute you have given to yours. My prayers and thoughts are with you.
By Logan on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Your writings indicate that your grandfather was a great person in your life and I am sure you are feeling a great loss. But you can continue the great things that he wanted for you by living a live using the guidelines he provided you. Sorry for you loss.
By steve on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
He sounds like a lovely man. You have done well to let him go in peace.
My stepfather is in the grips of Alzheimer’s and it is a terrible disease. I have no idea what happens after death but it cannot be worse than the living death of Alzheimer’s.
Remember them as they were, not how they went.
Steve
By mikew on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
As much as one can feel another’s pain I truly empathize.
And I envy you at the same time,
I lost my father last year (11/9) and I wasn’t able to make it there in time to say goodbye as it was a 6hr drive and we got there 4 hrs too late.
As corny or hokey as it may sound
The pain will pass, and even though the pain will diminish the love never will.
You and your family are in my prayers.
By Cory Simon on Nov 12, 2002 | Reply
Tony,
Thank you for sharing your great tribute to your grandfather with us. That was the most touching thing I have read in a long time. I know you will see your grandfather again someday, so take comfort in the fact that your separation from each other isn’t forever.
By Aaron Potts on Nov 13, 2002 | Reply
Dear Tony,
I just wanted to express my sympathy and sorrow, and wanted to let you know that, to an extent, I feel your pain. My own grandfather died not too long ago, not long after my mother. Losing a loved one is one of the hardest things a person can go through. Thankfully, you have been fortunate to have had a truly wonderful role model and friend who helped make you into the great person you are today.
I pray that the pain of your loss fades quickly, and that the memories of your grandfather live on inside you, and in your descendants when you too must answer the final call.
Sincerely,
Aaron Potts
By Bryn on Nov 14, 2002 | Reply
Dear Tony,
I feel a bit dumb, not having realised until today what had happened, even as a humble reader. I feel touched that you felt you could share what is obviously a very personal and difficult time with so many net users. It’s been a rough year for me in a lot of ways - some very good friends aren’t with me any more and I’m not sure I handled it in such a dignified manner. The world has this nasty habbit of catching you unawares but the memories never pass. Look after yourself and take care.
Bryn