Time is the ultimate betrayer. It catches up with everyone, eventually.
This morning, my grandfather died.
After more than 80 years of traveling the globe and farming on his piece of heaven in Birdsville, Georgia and digging ponds and building airplanes and riding in his pick-up truck loaded up with dalmations, time caught up.
My mother always told me that Big Buck never gave compliments. But, 26 years ago, at my birth, he said I was the most beautiful baby he’d ever seen.
Just two years ago Big Buck — that’s what everyone called him– was still wandering his farm in the truck. Time had made his lanky body look thinner and chiseled away at his face with skin cancer, but he was still doing what he loved to do.
One year ago, he couldn’t go out as much. The trips to the hospital, more than 30 minutes away from his rural home became more frequent.
This past month, it was decided that Big wouldn’t be returning to the farm. Time had caught up with his heart and he lived too far for a quick trip to the hospital if things got worse. My granny was left at home, her dementia softened all blows.
I’ve never been close to my grandfather. He has always been a mysterious man. I’d hug him upon opening the screen door to their ranch-style house, he’d shout out the screen door for his dogs to quiet down, with his favorite at his feet. I’d climb into the back of his pick-up with several cousins and we’d wind up and down dirt roads surrounded by cotton. Just last Thanksgiving, he was quiet at the table, until a grin came across his face and he told an off-color joke–he must be where my father and siblings and I get our dark senses of humor.
I called my father last week and asked how Big Buck was doing. He told me the doctors were talking in terms of weeks or days. He said he would be going to visit the hospital the next day to say goodbye to his father in his own way.
I was surprised by my reaction — I completely broke down.
I think the idea of the loss of never being able to crack the shell of who he was coupled with my fears of how his passing would affect my father finally caught up to me. I called my sister, still somewhat hysterical, and asked her to visit our grandfather with me, I called my brother and did the same. I told them even if he was asleep the whole visit, he’d know someone who cared was there.
Tuesday we did.
We’d already been prepared for the worst. My father told me that Big Buck now had pneumonia and was tied to the bed because he just wanted to be back at his farm. He told me he’d go in and out of consciousness. Even if he had been a complete stranger, I wanted to touch him and be present. I can’t imagine anything worse than being sick, confused, alone and tied down.
My father emailed my brother and sister and I:
“I am touched that you three wish to visit with him. You all have my full support if you decide to make the trip. This business is not a pretty thing to see, but it is also part of life and should not be hidden. If you wish to speak to him, lean in close and speak loudly to tell him who you are.
Big was born on October 28th in 1920. He has lived a long and interesting life. He has fought in wars, educated himself, raised a passel of children and farmed since 1946. His demeanor has never been quite what I would prefer a grandfather to have with you three. However, life is full of little things you wish were better.”
We were prepared.
My sister and I walked down the bright hallway and entered the room, where my brother was.
Seeing him was a shock. Time had done it’s worst in the past year. As the moments passed though, I stopped seeing the frail corpse-like man and started seeing Big Buck again.
I’d brought a huge print of my grandfather’s farm at cotton harvest in hopes of bringing a sense of home and relief to him. He faded in and out. When he was awake, he’d mumble and become frustrated that we couldn’t understand him and try desperately to sit-up and get out of the bed. I would pat his hand and say it was okay, he could relax. He would relax and sorta halfsmile and close his eyes. It was so strange and scary and heartbreaking to see this man, who had always been so strong, so very weak and helpless. I felt weak and helpless.
I asked my sister to forgive me and I picked-up my camera. Photographs are often how I process life. They freeze time and these photos allowed me to be absent from the room for a brief moment.
My brother decided he would go wait outside and my sister and I lingered in the room, making odd conversation when Big Buck would wake up and talk. We were selfishly waiting for a feeling of resolution or clarity. One last time, I put the photo of my sister and his cotton farm right in front of him. His face lit up. Big Buck was back. I held his hand and he squeezed back. We made quick conversation and you could tell he was present and aware, finally. I told him we were going to leave because we knew he had to rest. I asked if he was comfortable, he smiled and said yes. I reached for his other hand to untangle an IV that he was holding and he held my hand up, squeezing it hard in his hand. I told him I needed my hand back and he grinned. The light was back in his eye. He was being the mischievous man I’d always suspected him to be. I said, “You have to let go at 3. 1, 2, 3, let go!” and right at three he released my hand with a grand gesture, still grinning. Laughing.
I told him everything would be okay–mostly trying to reassure myself and forgive myself for not staying til we were kicked out– hung the photo of the farm on his wall and my sister and I walked out. I whispered that I was so glad we’d stayed just a bit longer, that we finally saw our real grandfather and did not take it for granted. She and I walked outside, sat on a bench, and silently cried.
My brother called me this morning, after he’d heard the news, and thanked me for asking him to visit Big Buck with me. He said he would have never gone, otherwise.
It’s a strange thing, time.
It takes everything and then, for just a moment, it gives you just what you need.
Rest in peace, Big Buck. You had an amazing life and I am so glad to have been with you in the end.
1944 New Guinea
