Late this evening I was feeling overly energetic and a bit hungry, so I decided to go out in search of late-night pancakes. (A search that went nothing if not as planned… but that’s a different story for a different day.) Where does my several years’ deceased Granddad come into play? Well, that’s where this story comes in.
Before he passed away, I’d quit my secure-yet-boring IT job with a small accounting firm for the lavish lifestyle of a full-time blogger. (Well, it didn’t happen quite like that… initially, I was looking to support myself with something part-time plus blogging, but as time passed I was spending more and more time on my writing, leaving less and less time for anything else.) My parents, I think, were faintly horrified and regularly asked me when I would get a real job. My Mother, in particular, always found excuses to drag me off to run “errands” with her that would inevitably wind up with her buying me groceries and filling the car up with gas. My paternal Grandparents smiled and nodded politely, saying encouraging things about doing what you love, but with worry in their eyes, and occasionally forcing money on me. My maternal Grandmother said little on the subject, but kept asking if I planning on graduate school.
Not unlike the rest of my immediate family, I’m stubborn and proud and dislike charity, but I have to say there were times when it really helped and times I’m not sure I would have been able to get by properly without it. Eventually, as you may know, I turned my free-lance gig into a full-time gig, and though I still work myself to exhaustion, I’m paid well enough for it (with benefits) that my parents no longer ask if I’m going to get a real job and my Grandmother no longer inquires about graduate school. (Which I may still do, some day… who knows.)
However, my Granddad, long before I was really sure I could really make a living doing this, was excited about my career change and cheerfully encouraged me to do what I loved. During the last few months of his life, we had a standing Thursday morning breakfast date. We’d drive out to the same little cafe and drink coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and pancakes or sometimes eggs or sometimes something else entirely. We’d talk and he’d always ask about my work. A former IBM engineer, he saw technology with a child-like wonder (or perhaps he saw me reaching, impractically, for my dreams with wonder and I couldn’t tell the difference), and was always interested in talking about the ins and outs of business on the internet. He was always smiling, always enthusiastic, always encouraging — and I’m not completely certain I would have been able to pull together much faith in myself without those weekly smiles. (Not that I can blame anyone’s negativity… my jump into writing was completely lacking in practicality, even though it seems to have worked out in the end.)
When Granddad went to the hospital with pneumonia, the last thing I remember him saying to me was that we’d have to have breakfast later that week. (Which, of course, he said with a brilliant smile, even from his hospital bed.) He was only expected to be in for a couple of days, but, like so many things in life, that didn’t go as planned. His health took a turn for the worse. He was intubated, his heartbeat became irregular (tachycardia?), and he became unresponsive. I’m not sure he was really there to hear me when I started, but I would sit by his bed and read to him during visiting hours, from a book about building the Florence cathedral that I thought would appeal to his mathematical precision. A few days later, we took him off life support and he passed away with the whole family gathered around his bed. He’d always been very clear about his wishes and hadn’t wanted to be kept alive artificially, though he’d initially agreed to be intubated because the doctors believed that it would only be a short term measure during a minor surgical procedure.
Nothing goes quite as planned — and though he has missed every breakfast date since, sometimes I make them, anyway. Not always the right day, time, or restaurant, but once every few weeks I’ll go out, by myseslf, and get breakfast, sit drinking coffee, and think about what he’d say to me if he were there. (Though he took his coffee black, I still like mine with cream and sugar, though.) When I leave, I’ll leave a big tip, in cash if I have it, because that’s what Granddad always did. (Tonight I left $5 on a $6.77 bill.) The first trip out was tough — everything that reminded me of Granddad made me want to cry. But they’ve gotten a little easier every time since.
I’m sure, despite everything that’s discouraging me just now, he’d still be encouraging. He always did see the silver to every cloud… but he was level-headed and practical, too. If I close my eyes and concentrate sometimes I can imagine what he would say, if we’d continued our breakfast dates. But I’m never really sure if this helps me move forward or keeps me stuck drinking coffee across the table from a painful memory.
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