Cayenne wrote:The legends said that when Myri spoke, the Myrians listened - in Taloba, or anywhere in their jungle home. Those away on patrols or sentry duty could hear Her speak. "Myrians and denizens of Taloba!" Myri's voice clapped like thunder, and the city, almost as one, fell silent for several moments, before the shouts, whoops, cheers, trumpets, and roars, decimating the silence that had loomed. Deja almost dropped her cleaver, looking on in the direction of the temple, the direction from which their Queen's voice came from, before joining in with a shrill war whoop of her own. "Today, we celebrate Dira, She Who Brings The End!" she addressed the burgeoning horde. "When she decides it is our time to go, we go! We go with honor, we go with pride. We do not fear death, nor what She brings!" There was the beginning of a drumbeat, the undercurrent of energy that was beginning to reverberate once more. "We are not afraid," Myri continued, "because we know that in the next life, we return. We do not die. We begin again, side by side with those we left behind! We remember those who die, and we honor them. We remember them. We mourn their loss, and we avenge them, if there is vengeance to be had! If our enemies cross one of us, they cross us all! Together we stand. Nothing breaks us apart!" Myri's eyes blazed. She was a warrior, a leader, the Usurper, the Uniter, the Merciless. "We remember our fallen! But do not just cry mournfully over the individuals, the dreams, and influences that have helped make you who you are!" the Goddess-Queen roared. "Dance for them! Sing for them! Honor them! Leap into the air and kiss the sky for them!" Her voice rang out as she paused for emphasis. "Honor the dead! Remember them! Celebrate for them, and know that they walk with us again today!" the Goddess finished, then, as the revelry began again in earnest. Or maybe she just allowed herself to be drowned out by the pulsating drums, by the stomping of feet, by the trumpeting of the tskannas. From here.
J.K. Rowling wrote:To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.
My grandfather passed away last night.
I spent about twelve hours in the hospice yesterday afternoon, went home for an hour to feed the dogs and try to get a bit of rest, and no sooner had I taken off my hearing aids did my mother call.
My grandfather was gone.
This has been a long time coming - I've been preparing for this for, well, years, and I think it's sad that it took so long.
My grandfather meant the world to me. He was the one who walked me to school, and walked back with me when I was small, then he was the one who waved me down the street and was waiting when I got home, because both of my parents worked. He was the one who helped me out in the ridiculously stupid but addicting CD-ROM "Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiago". He knew his world geography like you would not believe.
My love of reading and writing stems from him and my grandmother - they had walls of books, and we used to go to the library every week. I'd be 10 years old, and coming out with about 20 books for the week (babysitters club, animorphs, James Herriot, fiction, nonfiction, you name it), while they had their own books to return. Every day in the summer, from when I was a little girl until I was about twelve, my grandparents were the ones who watched me.
He was a strong man, a proud man, a man who taught me how important it was to be healthy, stay active, and that just because there were millions of people around the world who would mock me because I couldn't hear, that didn't mean I wasn't as good as they were - I was better. I was his and my grandmother's favourite, and I wouldn't hesitate to deny that to -any- of my cousins, either. I was the oldest. I got the limelight before anyone else claimed it. He taught me that it was important to do things you love, to ignore the people who want nothing more than to bring you down - the best way to get revenge on them is to prove them wrong and make them eat their words with a healthy dose of embarrassment. He used to quote Doctor Seuss at me: "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
He was right.
I've never lived more than 30 minutes away from him all my life.
We used to go for walks along the river, him, Gramma, and I, every afternoon, weather permitting, in the summer. We'd count turtles and red-winged blackbirds and mallard ducks and geese.
We'd enjoy lunches together at their big dining table after spending a couple of hours in the pool, homemade bread and fresh whatever else it was, and Grampa and I would split a pickle (we always got those big ones), and together we'd be picking the crumbs off the plate - my Gramma's bread was that good. You didn't waste it. Then we'd smile and grin at each other, and maybe split a pear or some cantaloupe or honeydew melon, or maybe a banana. Sometimes he'd have radishes with salt, or carrots, or celery.
We used to go for picnics at the rose garden, Grampa in his wicker/straw hat (he always wore one from spring until fall, then he changed into another one) and sunglasses, and I'd happily carry the picnic basket so he and Gramma could walk hand in hand, arms touching.
I've never seen two people more in love. I doubt I ever will again.
I remember sitting at the table with him and playing Go Fish and Crazy Eights, or reading and discussing the newspaper and what was going on in the world. He taught me about leadership and being fair and standing up for yourself and what you feel is right. He taught me that if you're going to argue with him, or with anyone else, and you want to have some expectation of winning, then you need to bring all your facts and figures from BOTH sides, to the table with you. He was a passionate firecracker who could make you laugh in a heartbeat, could magically stop tears with a kiss, and loved to sing. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin. Michael O'Donnell, even Michael Buble. His taste in music was wide. He loved to dance - and oh, he was good at it.
Sitting on the patio while he and Gramma danced together, moving in perfect unison from decades of experience, while Grampa sang at her, his voice all deep and throaty.
It's always the little things, you know, that you remember.
Watching baseball. I was never a fan of that, but he was, and because he was, his enthusiasm for it was contagious, so I didn't mind.
Baking.
Gramma's Peanutty Oatmeal cookies. Man, those were a favourite. We used to sneak one each in the morning, knowing we'd get another one later with juice midday.
When my Gramma died, his world shattered completely. He was a wreck. He never recovered from that.
He died one week away from the eighth anniversary of her death. He passed away May 10, 2012, and she passed away on May 17th, 2004. I remember her death because I was in an English test at the time, and the principal came to get me when I was done and told me that my dad was waiting.
In the late spring/early summer of 2009, I remember having a dream of my Gramma, and she was urging me to check on my Grampa. It turned out that that was when he started having strokes.
That soon cost him his driver's license, and that cut something out of a deeply proud man who valued his independence. It was another blow.
I used to take the Mishmobile (my little 1994 Toyota Corolla) over to his place, and I'd take him and Rosalee (his companion that he met some years after Gramma passed away who would develop Alzheimer's) up to the Legion dance, and pick him up. Sometimes we'd go get groceries after, and I'd carry the basket/push the cart for them.
Then he had another massive stroke that September.
He never went home again.
He had a fall in the hospital, shattered his hip. The bones fused together wrong.
Another stroke had him paralyzed all down his right side, his good side. He'd eventually recover some movement in his foot and hand, but that too left him after another stroke. He had trouble talking, after that, and it was harder for me to lipread when half of his face didn't work that well.
I visited him a lot.
Sometimes I went up to feed him once he went into the nursing home. He was having trouble there, so I'd go up. Then they asked me to stop since I'm not on their staff, and apparently that made them liable.
So I resigned myself to baking for him.
My grandfather was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, but he wasn't eating much anyway, so I thought, "Fuck it. He liked his cookies." I'd even found Gramma's Peanutty Oatmeal Cookies recipe, so I endeavoured to make them for him.
"Just as good as Hope used to make," he'd say, and nothing, and I mean nothing, in this world made me happier.
That became routine. My mother and I would go see him, and we'd both bring him cookies I made. He'd request a flavour - peanut butter, or chocolate chip, or peanut butter chip, or oatmeal, or oatmeal raisin, or oatmeal with date jam. And as the strokes continued, and his memory faded, there was one constant.
Michelle and the cookies. He'd say to my mom, "Ohhh, these are good. Just like Hope used to make." And my mother would say, "Michelle made them for you with love, Dad." And he'd say, "I know, I can taste it."
Towards then end, he decided my cookies were the best cookies ever - mainly because he wasn't eating much else. He might have had a slice of toast for breakfast, or some porridge or oatmeal, then he'd have a bit at lunch, and usually it was an Ensure for dinner - so after that, it was cookie time.
Last Friday (the 4th), my last visit with him before they stopped the pills entirely, he had eight peanut butter cookies, and we had a great visit. I stayed up there for probably an hour and a half, and we talked about the good times. The next morning, they amped up the pain medication because he was hurting so much - he was out of it. He couldn't talk. We went Sunday, he wasn't anything like the man I'd talked with Friday. Monday, same thing. Wednesday, he had some water and a chocolate button. But one eye was half closed, his tongue was grey. He was trying to talk and couldn't get it out.
Thursday we were told he was dying. His breath smelled like a cadaver. He was rotting from the inside out.
Thursday night at 11:20 PM, he was gone.
I'll never begrudge the hours spent sitting up there, taking abuse when his mind wasn't functioning right, or the time spent baking and baking and baking to feed the cookie monster, as we affectionately called him.
We went back to the hospice and did what we could there. Got in around 2 AM. I took the fern that my mom and I got for him. It's sitting on my table now.
Today, I'm back at work, holding down the fort in the office while my mother and her sister and brother cleaned up at his room, took the last of his things out and down, and are now at the crematorium for him.
There will not be a visitation - he didn't want one. In a way, he was so ashamed of the way he treated his family after Gramma died that he couldn't bring himself to ask them to come to his deathbed or after it.
But there's cross-country coordination (and some international, considering one of my moronic cousins is in the States and had the TEMERITY to ask my brother or I to take our laptops up to the hospital so she could SKYPE with Grampa before he died rather than suck up the pain (she's in a back brace) and get her useless fucking ass up here) to do for a memorial service with the family.
So please be patient. I'll answer things when I can, including PMs and HD tickets, but my mom really needs me right now.
Thank you for understanding. |
by Caelum on April 26th, 2012, 5:55 pm 
