My Grandpa

I recently read Tuesday's with Morrie on the recommendation of my father-in-law. It chronicles the last days and lessons of Morrie as his body withers away from ALS. My grandfather is also engaged in a slow death, but it's the opposite of Morrie's process. His mind isn't trapped in an increasingly useless body; his body is the strong, healthy home of his increasingly crippled mind.

If it were happening the other way around, my grandfather wouldn't be like Morrie. He was never a scholar, and he wasn't one to philosophize about life. Even when my grandfather was in perfect health, I didn't have long conversations with him. He would talk for a long time about the importance of purchasing life insurance for myself. He would tell me a select few stories about his life -- usual stories that revealed his shock and gratitude for how well his life had turned out. But mostly when I was with him at his home, he would watch TV and play solitaire.

He did love people and he was every bit as social as Morrie. But he always loved people with his body, with his hands. His hands are very large, swollen with arthritis, and shaky for the last ten years. But one of the ways I watch my grandfather calm his shaky hands is by reaching out and enfolding another hand, or by wrapping his arm around someone's shoulders and then squeezing their bicep. Grandpa stayed busy after retirement by being of service. He would serve my grandmother by doing many of the house chores, he would serve at in his Sunday School class, as a church usher, making coffee every Sunday morning, delivering things that needed to be delivered. He was a frustrated junk collector married to a woman who spring cleans four times a year, so he found other ways to recycle. He went to the Wycliffe offices every week and shredded confidential files and then drove all of their paper and cardboard to the dump. He called on people who were sick and helped in whatever way he could. And he would always remind people that things were going to be OK with one of his hugs and gentle smiles and simple stories.

How alive are you if you can't remember? What does life feel like? I have been keenly aware lately of how my life is fed and nurtured by story. All humans are like that. We want to listen to stories, we organize our memories into story, we learn through stories. So what is happening to grandpa as his stories unravel? The present is jumbled and confused, since he can't hold short-term memories at all. He doesn't like to watch TV anymore, because he can't make sense out of the stories. He can't interact with my grandma's storytelling. There was a period of time in his illness where he would make up stories. He would tell people complicated stories about the lives of the construction men working next door. But he no longer does this. He's just become quiet.

But I think the thing that bothers him the most is that he's not of service. My mom told me last night that he said to her, "You're my daughter right? Well I want to do something. Please let me do something." And amazingly he still has one way to be of service. He works for Meals on Wheels. He accompanies a volunteer and delivers meals, mostly to 90 year old women on his retirement center. And he listens to their stories, and hugs them, and they love it! My grandfather's last thesis.