I want to tell you about my papaw

My whole life, there hasn’t been anyone who has been more of a “daddy” to me than my grandfather. My biological father has never provided much of a “fatherly” presence, and I’ve confronted him about that before, still to no avail. Even my stepfather never respected me or seemed to value me enough for me to refer to him anything more than his first name.

My papaw, though, has been the best dad ever. When I was born, my mom and I lived at my grandparents’ house. We lived there until I was 4 year old, so most of the few memories I have of that time are very faint. I remember watching Forrest Gump over and over (still one of my favorite movies, ever). I remember playing with our dog Maggie on the green carpet. I remember my grampa playing guitar with me. I remember my grampa asking me to dance with him in the dining room at Christmas time. I remember playing in a little plastic Barbie Jeep out in the garage while my grampa worked on several different projects at once.

We always visited my grandparents’ house, particularly for holidays and birthdays. My papaw, always the life of the party, played his good ol’ country music (no one else ever enjoyed this very much…), cracked witty jokes, and was quick to put on a smile on everyone’s face. Every once in a while, he’d get out his guitar and play a song or two.

Now, my grampa, even from his very early days, was sick. Shortly after birth, he spent 3 years in a hospital bed with MS and polio. He was bullied and humiliated because of his illnesses. He was only an average student (we still have one of his report cards!), but his character didn’t fail. When he was 18 he married my grandmother and by 20 they had had my mother.

When he was younger, my grampa had a drinking problem. I’ve heard stories about how he mistreated my gramma, mom, and aunt. I don’t know why he drank. Maybe to numb the pain he felt from his polio-ridden legs, maybe to hide from the emotions he didn’t want to deal with, or maybe for no reason at all. Either way, I know that alcohol was not pretty on my grampa. It made him mean, aggressive, and sometimes even violent. He humiliated his daughters, and was disrespectful (to say the least) to his wife.

From the point of my memory, however, that wasn’t my papaw. My papaw worked hard and played harder. He was a guitar master, even going on to craft his own guitars and lapsteels, and often played with friends or family. He used to work in a battery factory until he was put on disability (I even remember when this news came about, even though I didn’t really understand what it meant). After that, my grampa’s woodworking hobby really took off. He was constantly building something. When I turned 11, he presented me with a handcrafted vanity mirror, complete with my name plate, my favorite color felt inside the drawer, and his very own “handcrafted” brand on the back. So neat! He submitted a photo of the vanity to a woodworking magazine, and he was featured in the ‘zine for it! Man, did I feel like I my papaw was famous!

When I was younger, I don’t remember him ever complaining about his illnesses. He never even acted like it was an issue. Sometimes I even forgot that he did have lifelong illnesses. I remember that he’d limp a little bit, but to me, that was just the way grampa walked. Then he started using a cane, and that became the norm. He started crafting his own canes. Some with neat designs, some just plain wood. Again, I didn’t think anything of it. Grampa never said he was in pain, so to me, he was just walking with a cane to show off his pieces. And not long after that, he got an electric wheelchair. I remember he didn’t want it and rarely used it because he didn’t want to become dependent upon it.

Even as my grampa’s health steadily declined, he never made a spectacle about it. Never complained about it, never mentioned it, and shrugged it off as not a big deal when asked about it. He was eventually diagnosed with diabetes, COPD, scoliosis, lumbar disc disease, and lupus, among other things. Like I said, he was a pretty sick guy. But one of his most redeeming, and probably detrimental, qualities was that he never complained of them. He’d moan and grunt a little bit, but that didn’t NEARLY show how much pain he was really in.

Through all of this, he still made it a point to make everyone laugh. Whether it was through jokes, funny faces, or just teasing, he’d make everyone laugh. When I turned 18, he and my gramma played me a silly little song on the banjo and kazoo. Luckily, my aunt video taped it and now I have it to go back and watch whenever I want!

My grampa helped me with my car, told me what he thought about the decisions I was making, gave me advice about what I should do (even though those were things I didn’t want to do). He made me feel special, respected, loved, appreciated, and valued. Things that a dad should do, and things that my dad never did.

Earlier this year, my papaw spent a lot of time in ICU. He was having dangerously low blood pressure levels, he had pneumonia in both of his lungs on top of his end stages of COPD, and he was suffering congestive heart failure. I had visited him as much as I could, but between work, a weird college class schedule, and living 45 minutes away, I didn’t get to visit that often. Sometimes I’d come and he’d be fine, and other times I’d come and he was confused about what part of the year we were in, what season it was, or what month it was. In his better times, he would FaceTime me while I was at work or while I was in between classes, still making jokes (there was one time he held the phone out so I could see his hospital gown and asked me if “this dress makes me look fat”), still acting like nothing was wrong.

I was at work one day, and I got a call from my mom telling me that his doctors said it was time. I practically hung up on her, told my boss I had leave NOW, and sped the entire way to the hospital to see him. I cried, but it wasn’t real to me. It wasn’t real that my grampa, who doctors said was sick but never acted sick, was leaving.

I stayed at the hospital as much as I could after that. I didn’t want to leave his room. I didn’t want to let go of his hand. There was one time I had gone to visit him and I gave him a big hug to say hi, and he said “I love you buddy. You’ll always be with me and I’ll always be with you.” Aside from some general chit chat, that was the last thing my papaw said to me.

A few days later, he let go. I think he was afraid of what was to come after, or else he’d have let go earlier. My great-aunt played Amazing Grace during the passing (yes, I was present), and now I can’t listen to that song without getting overly emotional.

I think about him every day. I miss him every day. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he’s proud of me. I wonder if watches over me. I wonder if or when I’ll see him again. I wonder if he’s okay now.

My grampa is the best man I’ve ever known. He’s not perfect, and he’s not always done the right thing, but he’s always been full of a loving and giving spirit. I struggle with the fact that he won’t meet my children and that he won’t see me get married or help me around the house that I will some day own, or even give me any more hugs. There’s a part of me that has gone with him, and that I’ll always be missing. Until we meet again.