Death in the Family

Today, I took the Christmas tree down. For so many weeks, this little Christmas tree has been such a joy and source of comfort for me through these long winter evenings.

Christmas used to mean the smell of woodsmoke, the thrill of presents under the tree, the joy of family spending time together, eating, talking, and being close.

Now, Christmas is a holiday that I tend to opt-out of, to do as little as possible now that we live so far away. 

This was the first year in a long time that I had even put up a tree. That I had even tried to capture the joy of Christmas without family, children, or presents.

And it brought me a lot of comfort to see my fancy lit-up tree each night. 

And then I took it down. 

The day that I had been informed that my great-grandfather had passed.

My Grandpa Ivey.

Being far away when death and heartbreak hit is a lot easier than one might imagine.

It means that I get to disconnect to a certain extent.

Not being around the emotions of everyone as they grieve allows me to do so more quietly and less emotionally.

Grandpa Ivey was a sick man. He was an old man. He was suffering and although we might be sad to lose him, death was probably the preferable outcome.

So I took the Christmas tree down, bit by bit thinking about this man and my family.

Thinking about all the times that I didn't visit him in the nursing home because it was hard for me. Thinking about all the times I did visit him or he was brought to my Mom's for holidays or parties and I felt like he didn't recognize me anymore.

Thinking of all the times that I wrote letters to him when we were far from home. Telling him about Okinawa and Idaho and how I was trying to finish school.

Remembering how I stopped sending those letters once he was put in the home. Thinking that he was no longer lucid enough to care about my life or anything that could be said between the pages of a card. 

Thinking about all the times I visited when we came home from our various duty stations and being able to see the deterioration of a man that I loved and always tried to include in my life, even as a young child.

We shared stories of military life, Asia, school, and teaching.

Until we didn't. 

Or he couldn't. 

Until he couldn't speak coherently but looked at me with blue eyes that were full of pride, love, and sadness. Eyes of a man that were in the midst of suffering and at the edge of death.

I do not grieve for his death because I know that, in the end, this concludes his suffering. No matter what kind of afterlife you believe in, we agree that suffering comes to an end as breath leaves the body.

But as I took the baubles and bulbs off the Christmas tree, delicately and mindfully, I was reminded of all the ways he has shown up in my life as I've grown up and even moved away. 

I thought about my Nana and Mom who are grieving now and how little I can do from this far away. That's the hard part. I can't do anything to ease their suffering or love them from afar. 

I thought of the huge family that exists because of this man, three daughters, sons-in-laws, and countless grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and even, great-great-grandchildren.

And I let the tears run down my face for a man that I loved and for the people who loved him who are hurting right now. 

Taking the tree down felt like a reminder of how life changes, evolves, and the passage of time. A reminder that all good things must come to an end.

Grief, although about the one who has passed, reminds us how we didn't show up in the ways we wanted or we find comfort in the ways we did. 

Grief and death are such a reminder to love the ones you love while you still can. To show up in the ways that you won't regret later. That it is in the common mundane moments of everyday life that you show people who you are and how you love them. 

To my Grandpa Ivey, I loved you and I hope you rest in peace.