The 35th Precinct

My grandfather died on Sunday evening at the age of 81. According to my mother, he wasn't in any pain and did not recognize those around him. His wife, Grandma Helen, is understandably devastated even though she is grateful that his suffering is over. She and the rest of the family are making funeral arrangements and will let me know what's happening when.

It hasn't sunk in for me yet. The brain understands and parses the meaning; the heart does not. It keeps insisting that dead doesn't really mean dead; no more; gone. It just means that he's gone for a while and will be back. I suspect that my heart will resist the truth until a sliver of memory or a remembered bit of conversation smashes through its fragile wall of denial and reminds it that dead is dead, no matter how much I wish it wasn't.

When my father died, it took several days for that reality to set in, and when it did, I was a wreck for days. I still wish for my father sometimes, even though he's been dead for eleven years. When my ex dumped me in 2003, all I wanted was for my big, strong daddy to hunt him down and dribble his ass like a basketball until he regretted every rotten thing he ever said to me. I don't think daughters ever stop looking for their fathers when life goes sour. I doubt I'll stop looking for my grandfather any time soon, either.

I know the worst is over, but the aftermath feels pretty damn rotten. Words are inadequate, and gestures seem impotent and useless, so I'm just going to do what I always do: wrap my arms around the nearest metaphorical eucalyptus tree and cling to it like a koala on a meth and PCP cocktail.

In other "You want some fries with that shit shake?" news, the financial guru in charge of my father's estate changed firms(again), so I'll be $400 short until I trudge down to the bank and get a(nother) goddamned authorization letter for the monthly funds transfer. Apparently, my trustee couldn't be assed to tell me ahead of time about the change so that I could have the letter ready. You know, because cripples on fixed incomes can take a $400 shortfall in perfect stride. And a trip to the bank on short notice is no problem for someone with no car and a dwindling bus fare cache. We'll be all right since I'm paranoid and fret about such calamities every month, but I'm tired of having my budget, such as it is, wrecked because the bean counter who cuts the checks got a case of wanderlust.

( CSI:NY S5 SPOILERS And Speculation )

The resultant noise from that endeavor will sound eerily similar to the godawful performance of Laura and Sophie on last night's Nashville Star. In other words, like a cat being artificially inseminated with a gold-plated Garden Claw.

I talked to my mother today. Grandfather is failing quickly; he hasn't eaten in three weeks, and the liver cancer has spread to his esophagus. The doctors offered to insert a stent into his esophagus to keep it open, but he declined. He simply wants to be done. If nothing changes, he has chosen to starve to death and will do so very soon. My mother doubts he will be in any shape to receive visitors.

She did, however, suggest that I write him a final letter, filled with my best and clearest memories of him. That way, he can read it(or have it read to him)without the pressure to perform. My grandfather has always been gruff when it comes to emotional displays and tends to downplay heartfelt sentiment with sarcasm and snide humor. Judging from his comment to my aunt during the ambulance ride to the hospital("Ha! I get the limousine treatment when the buzzards are circling.), this is unlikely to change, and even though I know that he means no ill will, and that it isn't All About Me as his life draws to a close, I don't think I'd bear his chiding with grace.

So, I'm going to write my letter over the weekend. I've already chosen the clearest and dearest memories, and maybe later, after I've shared them with him, I'll share them with you. And setting them down here will preserve them for me, too, so that when I'm mutton-headed and senile and nursing a tumor of my own, I can reread them and remember, not only him, but myself.

In the meantime, I'm going to pester Roomie for some hot tea and watch "Nashville Star". I might work on Et Tu X as well, but that might be beyond me tonight. We'll see.

I meant to post yesterday, but it was easier to be a slug, and by the time I marshalled my underwhelming give a damn reserves into action, the weather went to shit, so I went to sleep.

This morning, I'd planned to bleeble about the awesomeness of seeing Viggo Mortensen nekkid in Eastern Promises, but when I opened my inbox, there was an email from my mother marked simply, "Grandpa".

Poof went all my happy intentions.

Grandpa is in the hospital on a downward slide; the doctors suspect that the bladder cancer he beat ten years ago has returned and spread, but nothing is conclusive. They won't know more until next week. When they do, I will, if there is time, be making a trip to see him for the last time.

I don't want to. Not because it's inconvenient or unsettling, but because I'm not ready to let him go. I don't care that he's in his eighties, or that I haven't seen him in five years. He's my grandfather, the person in this world whom I most closely resemble, and I don't want to say goodbye. God can kiss my ass.

So, if I'm churlish, petulant, excessively critical, or just plain incommunicado in an attempt to stave off a savage attack of Internet Asshole Disease, that's why.


Viggo did have a nice chest, though his ass was skinnier than I expected. It looked like two unbreaded chicken thighs slapped together.