I wish I could still feel his heavy hand guide mine as I tried to shift the gears of Diana, his jeep, coaxing it along to Stewart's to pick up a half gallon of milk for the kids. I wish I could still count the pieces of spinach weaved between his crusty dentures and smell the toxic soy sauce-cranberry juice odor lingering in his mustache hairs. I wish I could hear his over told stories and whimsical pondering and laughter in the eve of the night. I wish I could still sprint up the beaten drive and jump into his arms to be swung like all little girls should be swung. I wish I could see him and love him. I wish he was still here.
It was a brisk afternoon, mid November, the day I lost my grandfather. I was wearing a light weight plaid shirt, going against my mother's persistent nagging to down this ridiculous pea coat, better suited for a widowed lawyer, than a seventeen-year-old girl. I had aimlessly walked for hours, for in the haven of Central Park's seasoned arches time was irrelevant. Children with cute hats dotted about, as little dandelion bits floated through goer byers, wishies on the wind. I'd love to say I had contributed to this lovely array, but on that day I had no wishes, no aspirations; I only had freckles of hope that were fading faster as sunset swooped in.
I had received the call approximately 8:00 in the morning. Just getting back from a jog, I had trouble hearing the voice under my heaves and sweat, but it was clear from the high-pitched sob, it was my mother. Truth-be-told, I knew what she had to say before I picked up. I had known what she was to say the night prior, had known weeks in advance, had known since May 23, 2001, when he was diagnosed. Lung cancer, they told me in the dim-lit booth of Ollies, our favorite old diner. The diner where we used to share grilled cheese sandwiches every Wednesday night and ordered seven refills, because they were free and we were cheap. When he told me, I tried to choke back tears, pretended for a moment I was a tough kid, the one who gets a pat on the back for being good sport. What a joke. Too bad no one laughed, as my pupils lost themselves in tears, which then skidded down the lumps of my uneven complexion. I was not a beautiful crier, not one of those girls who had tall, handsome lads wrap their arms around them and dab their little noses with napkins. I suppose it helped that I was not beautiful and the wailing and bright red snout were a bonus.
Little had I known, that lunch in the dim lit booth was one of our last real lunches. One of the last ones, where he would chug down diet beverages and ramble for hours, no interruptions by pesky coughs or appointment checks.
Regardless, none of that really mattered that brisk, supposedly pea coat worthy, afternoon in mid November. For it was over, he had no other chances. I had known he was dying like I knew that half naked elderly woman who sat on the corner of 52nd street had no home. Based on her rags and illegible sign, I assumed she had no self-sustaining job, yet I still half-heartedly hoped, as I lay in bed, that she too was warm, safe.
That day as I wandered through Central Park, I had a choice. It had been three weeks since the last visit I'd made it up to the Mount Sinai Hospital. It was unpleasant, wires up the wazoo. His breath was appallingly peppermint and no green leafs in sight. Yet, at least he could still joke and sit up with ease. That November day, it would be a whole other story. I knew that, as I hastened my pace, shoving my way through a gaggle of artists, probably ogling at some dead butterfly like it was Mona Lisa of arthrops. I knew that, as I pushed through the sliding doors, deciding to go on without my mother. I knew that as I took the stairs two at time, raced up to the secretary's desk and then hastily maneuvered in a funny shower cap and booties into his room.
That was the last time I saw my grandfather. Where I felt his heavy hand, heard his voice and got to love him. Crazy thing is, I almost didn't go. As I walked back and forth, under Central Park's foliage, I was torn. I was afraid to see him weak, afraid to see him as every other victim of cancer.
Yet, what I saw was not an incapable elderly man, but instead my best friend a little down on his luck. He still called me little buddy as I ran to his bedside. Still beckoned me to his ear, so he could whisper a few final words.
“You are strong and you are loved,” he had spoken steadily. His lips had pressed against my cheek and I could see his eyes gleam. When I got my college rejection letter from Cornell, I heard him. His voice bounced off the kitchen's tile floor where I had fallen to in grief, it wrapped around me like a hug from an angel. When I ran the last mile of my first marathon, I could hear him cheering from the crowd. When I walked down the aisle, bought an apartment, lost my first job, he was there every time.
That day when I saw my grandfather weak, I was scared, repulsed even. To all others I feigned bravery, depicted our last moments with gooey sprinkles of hallmark worthy clichés, but that day wasn't pleasant. He had spit in my eardrum as he choked out his last words, his eyes had filled with tears and the nurse had to check in every ten minutes, occasionally emptying the suspicious yellow tinted bag. Yet never the less, he had still smiled, a pure toothy grin. My grandfather feigned no bravery, for he was brave. He smiled because I was there, not because he was okay with dying. He made no false pretenses, cried when he wanted, and laughed loudly waking his fellow roommate. That's what a fighter is; someone who stays true to themselves to the very end, doesn't let anyone or anything tell them who to be.
I wish we still had joy rides to Stewart's, shared cheesy sandwiches in dim-lit booths and overdosed on carbonated drinks. I wish he never died and I will never stop wishing or trying to be the best fighter my buddy could ask for.