On a day like this 10 years ago
you could easily find me holed up in my bedroom at my grandmother’s house
staring out the window at the swing in the backyard. I could stare at that
swing forever. To an outsider it wasn’t anything spectacular – in fact it was
just two heavy duty chains attached by eye hooks to a couple two by fours that
had been nailed or glued or screwed together
and spray painted John Deere green (his favorite color after gold). But
to us that swing was everything. It was anchored between two huge pine trees smack
in the middle of the yard. You could swing as high and as fast as you wanted on
that swing, and that’s just what we did. That swing represented every weekend
of our childhoods, pumping and pushing each other higher and higher as he stood
there laughing and watching. There was a patch of dirt beneath that swing that
developed a divot that just got deeper and deeper with each passing year. My sisters and I would sit on that
swing and spin in circles until the chains were as tight as they could go, then
we’d pick up our feet and squeal as the chains unfurled.
But on that day as I stared out
the window I knew the magic of that swing was gone. He had taken it with him
and we’d never be able to find it again. He had been our hero, our friend, one
of the greatest men I’ve ever known … he was our Buppa. And he was just gone.
How were we supposed to wake up in that house every morning without seeing his
face or hearing him shuffle through the kitchen on his way to the microwave?
How could we be expected to play in the basement knowing he wasn’t in his
office or his workshop puttering away? How would we ever be able to use that
swing again without missing him? The answers were years in the making – even
now five years after my grandmother has sold that house I find myself wishing
for those weekends back, if only just to hear his voice one more time.
When Buppa was diagnosed with
Alzheimer’s disease I had only heard of it in passing. At the time I didn’t
understand exactly what was going to happen to him and to us. My parents
explained that Bup would slowly lose his memory and eventually we would lose
him. Back then they called it the five year disease – but our Buppa lived
another 10! He was always stubborn that way. Tell him he couldn’t do something
and he’d prove you wrong. After he’d been diagnosed our family continued to
live our lives the way we always had, we went skiing and golfing and spent
summers in New Hampshire. We celebrated birthdays and holidays and traveled as
a family. Buppa knew what was happening to him, he began to leave himself notes
around the house reminding him to take his glasses and wallet when he left and
he drew himself a map for the steering wheel of his car so he knew how to get
to the corner store and back. It wasn’t until the weekend that he got lost that
we realized things were a lot further along than we’d thought. He had gone to
the store to pick up some milk and when he didn’t return my mother began to
panic. My father went out to drive the neighborhood to see if he could find Buppa
but when that turned up nothing we called the police. Eventually Buppa found
his way home to us, but it was then that we knew his days of driving – and
ultimately independence were over. And for him, being the man he was, this
might as well have been a death sentence.
Slowly but surely over the next
few years we watched as the man we once knew disappeared from us in every way
imaginable. He could no longer ski or build intricate projects in his workshop.
His golf game suffered and his hands began to shake. He was easily frustrated
and often angry when he couldn’t remember the littlest detail. But despite it
all he loved us and we him. He was truly a man that could never be replaced.
So when the call came in late
October of 2003 that “he didn’t have much longer” I dropped everything to be
there. I was living in Vermont at the time attending UVM and was in the midst
of mid-terms. I jumped in my car and drove straight through – breaking speed
limits as I drove down 89 through Vermont onto 95 in Massachusetts and then 84
into Connecticut – over 6 hours without stopping just to be by his side.
When I arrived, my entire
family had descended on my grandmother’s home. Buppa was in a hospital bed in
the sunroom surrounded by his five children. My mother and her two brothers
were, in reality, his step-children, but to him there was no distinction – they
were his in every sense of the word. They held hands and cried, told stories of
his life and when he would open those deep, knowing eyes they’d smile and he’d
smile right back. There were so many of us there, I can’t even remember how
many – we took turns sitting by his bedside, remembering the man he was to us.
We each had our private moments with him to tell him how much we loved him and
be able to say goodbye.
I remember when it was my turn,
I sat staring at the face of a man who God had put into our lives as our
cornerstone. He was in essence our anchor – keeping our crazy blended family
together. I wondered what life was going to be like once he was gone, I thought
about the fact that he’d never see me graduate from college, get married or
start my own family. I reached out and took his wrinkled hand in mine and when
I did he opened his eyes. As tears streamed down my face I told him I loved
him. He looked back at me, smiled and said “I love you too”… those words had
never meant so much.
Just a few hours later we all
gathered around his bed and held hands one last time. My uncle said a prayer
for Buppa and for us. And as we stood there together God called him home. He
took one final breath and he left us. In that moment we knew we would never be
the same.
Now, ten years later as we
celebrate his life I realize that statement is more true than I could ever have
imagined. In the years since his death our blended family has gone our separate
ways. We no longer see my mother’s step-brothers, and while we stay in contact
with their children our holidays are no longer spent together and those ski
trips and summers in New Hampshire have long since ceased. I have graduated
from college, married an amazing man and just gave birth to my first child. All
the things I knew he would miss. In my heart I know he’d be proud of my degree,
he’d love my husband and Lucas would be the light of his life. But despite
knowing these things, there isn’t a day that goes by that I wouldn’t give
anything to have him here for just one more minute. I want him to SEE the woman
I’ve become and I want to hear his voice just once say he’s proud of me. I
think for the rest of my life I’ll miss him. Whether it’s the sound of his feet shuffling down the
hall, the way he taught me how to ski “correctly”, or the way he’d dance the
Charleston… my life wouldn’t be what it is had he never been a part of it so
for that I’m grateful.
I’ll see him again someday;
that I know but until then … Rest Easy Bup! We love you more than you’ll ever
know!
July 7, 1917 - November 1, 2003
