So I am going to forewarn you. This is not a pleasant post. This is not something light or easy. This is a part of my brain that is hard. I have debated posting this, but I'm trying this thing where I am real with people. So take this as is.
It's funny what happens when I just sit
here thinking. It’s crazy how strange it is to just allow my thoughts to be. So
often I find myself trying to control them, trying to tame them, even trying to
forget them. But, how refreshing it is to take a deep breath and just release
them- all the good, all the bad, all the ugly.
I was just telling one of my best friends how I find my
brain to be one of the most dangerous parts about me. I feel like my mind is my
own weapon against me. It is so easy for me to get stuck in all the thoughts
that run through there on a daily basis, never seeming to cease.
So, *side tangent*, one time, in
all my overanalyzing, I realized something incredible. Every girl I have ever
talked to, save for a few shallow exceptions, have, at some point or another,
overthought a situation. In fact, I always see girls worrying and gossiping and
complaining about something. We can
never really seem to shut up. And then I took a look at all my guy friends, at
all the men in my life. Sure, they worry and complain, but then there are those
times when you see a guy gazing off into the distance with this blank look
etched across his face. I’ve always been curious about what could possibly be
going on above his eyes. So one time, when my curiosity got the best of me, I
asked. And I got the ever so typical answer, “nothing”. But I pressed on,
refusing to take the answer people say to hide what is actual going on inside
their brain. And as I pushed, I continued to get the infuriating, one-word
answer of “nothing”. Finally, after endlessly nagging, I got a firm and
exasperated multiple word answer: “Sydney, I’m telling you that I really can’t
tell you what I was thinking about because I don’t know. Truly I was thinking
about absolutely nothing.”
I was stunned. He sounded so honest, but I couldn’t believe
it. This is a concept that I can’t grasp. Perhaps it’s because I think about thinking
about nothing- the concept that requires no thought.
To any girl reading this, can you
honestly say that you can actively, or even subconsciously think about nothing,
or rather just not think at all? If so, I envy you, because I have never
experienced this sensation. It seems wonderful.
You see, my mind doesn’t work quite
like that. Sure, I try to tune it all out, the noises, the constant stream of
fears and worries and reality and depth. I try to focus on only the good, the
thoughts that bring me happiness, the things I want to hear and believe and
think about. But recently, a new, or perhaps repressed thought keeps bubbling
up inside me. The thought is a somewhat
depressing thought. Honestly, I doubt you’ll want to think about. Because,
that’s the point. Really, we subconsciously
trick ourselves. It’s ingrained in our human nature. You see, we can’t really
face reality. We can’t handle it. So we fill our lives with distractions,
labeling them as important. Whether it’s sports or school or money or drugs or
alcohol or tv or stuff or anything, we use this as a distraction. Because, and
I honestly believe this, without distractions, what are you left with? I have
this theory, that we are left with facing ourselves, and a great majority of
the time that scares us, because maybe we won’t like what we see. Maybe reality
is far too depressing because, in many ways, it is beyond our comprehension.
So, I realize that I’m going all
Holden Caulfield on you, and I’m not writing this to depress you. I writing the
truth of my brain. I’m telling you that it isn’t all full of happiness and
carefree thoughts. Is anyone’s? How often I try to pretend that I don’t have
fears or worries or doubts, that I don’t understand so many things, that I’m
not broken. But I am. I’m broken. I feel like everyday we follow Eve and bite
into the apple. We have this thirst, this obsession with knowledge, with
understanding and comprehending our world, ourselves, reality, humanity, life,
God. And we can’t. Because at the end of the day, we are afraid to face the
knowledge of trust. We are afraid to admit that we don’t know. We are afraid of
the unknown, and that might be the only useful thing I really know.
So, I’m going to tell you about a
recent experience that will forever remain with me. This may be one of the most
difficult accounts I have and will ever write about. It’s not pleasant. It may sound harsh at parts.
You may disagree with my thoughts. But I’m not asking for anyone to agree with
me. I’m just showing you me. I’m not holding back. All the good, all the bad,
all the ugly.
My grandpa has been dying for over
two years. And for over two years he has lived, if you can even call it that,
in excruciating pain. He’s also lived undiagnosed. For the past couple of
years, he has lived, drowning in the unknown. He has been facing something the
majority of us refuse to ever think about. He has been suffering more than
anyone I have ever seen. He has been broken down in everyway and is only left
with the question of importance. What matters?
I love my grandpa. I’ll tell you a
little bit about the grandpa I know. When I was born, I don’t think he liked me
very much. Oh, yes, he loved me from the start, but I doubt that he liked me.
He thinks babies are ugly. And, I mean, he has a point. But from the second I
was born, he had already made the commitment to teach me the art of
stubbornness. He flat out refused to call me by the legal name given to me by
his daughter and son-in-law. To him, I have always been Lulu. It was apparently
a character in some old comic, and I reminded him of her. He and my grandma are
the only two people I have ever allowed to call me this. I think I can only
remember two times that my grandpa called me ‘Sydney’ and I hated it. I am
forever Lulu to him.
I have been sassy with my grandpa
since I could talk. He gives me crap, and I dish it right back. Our banter was
well known within our family. He is stubborn, close-minded man who was always
watching some baseball game in one of his two favorite chairs. He was the king
of naps and I would always come into the room to find him asleep with the
remote resting across his forehead. He was grumpy and negative, but he has a
laugh that fills my heart with joy. I would always, even as a teenager, come
over and sit on lap and he would tease me about something and, somehow with
him, I always had some witty response. If only I could do that with all the
other people who tease me!
One time, I found out that my
grandpa hated to dance. In fact, he refused to even dance with my mom at her
wedding. I always told him that I thought I could get him to dance with me at
mine. He said it wouldn’t happen, but I firmly believe in my persuasion
abilities.
I have always been one of his
favorites. I know it, and so does my family. I’m not gonna lie. I’m stupidly
proud of that. Of course, he loves all my brothers and cousins, but I have
always gotten along with him the best. I think it’s because he knows I won’t
take crap. I’m just as stubborn as he is. I would like to think that I’m more
open-minded, but somehow, I have a feeling that isn’t really true.
I have known him for eighteen
years, as an overweight, stubborn, loving grandfather. He could make me smile
and laugh and he could infuriate me. He was a man of many talents.
Last week, he went into impatient
hospice. And no one truly knows what’s wrong. He’s been to so many doctors and
had so many tests done. They have had theories but nothing conclusive. He
probably weighs as much as me. His once deep voice is faint and hardly
audiable. He looks so frail, so unlike the man I have known my whole life.
I have been afraid of seeing him.
Because I knew that when I did, it could be the last time. I have been afraid
to remember him in this way- sick and weak and hurting so much.
Nearly a year ago, I talked to him
on the phone. Now, like I said, he is a stubborn old man. I know he has his
views on religion and Christianity and God. And, though I would never pretend
to know a man’s heart, he has always struck me as the type to put God in a box.
He’s a formality, taken out on Sunday’s and placed gently back inside the box,
waiting for the next time he could be used again.
So, anyway, a year ago, my grandpa
called me. And for some reason, he told me that he believed that God had
forgotten him. And I didn’t know what to say. What do you tell a man, who has
been physically suffering for so long without an answer, how do you tell him
that God is there when clearly, he doesn’t seem like it? So, I’m sure I said
something lame, something along the lines of
“I’m praying for you. You’re not forgotten.”
So, for the past year of my life, I
have been very concerned for my beloved grandpa’s soul. I have asked people to
pray that he would find God. I have asked that people wouldn’t just focus on praying
for the end of his suffering, but on praying that through his suffering he
could come to know Christ, personally. It may sound harsh, but I would much
rather my grandpa suffer nearly unendurable pain on earth than spend eternity
apart from God. I wanted him to be here as long as took for him to know his
Savior. And he is very stubborn and negative, and I’m sure, like me, always has
to learn things in the hardest of ways.
I believe that God listened to my prayer. He’s still alive.
About a week before my final exams,
my mom called me. She told me that it probably wouldn’t be much longer now. He
was going into hospice. He was going to die.
Now, this is not something I was
really able to process. In fact, I kind of refused to. I know, very well, that
death is a part of life. But I wanted his death to lead into True Life. And, I
suppose I was feeling a bit selfish. I desperately wanted to see him before he
left me. But, I knew that once I saw
him, I had to admit to myself what was happening.
I figured, he must be scared. I
feel like I would be, facing the unknown, facing death, facing God. Maybe I’m
just too young and naïve, or maybe I’m a coward, but I just figured it had to
be frightening to know that you are about to leave this world. We all will one
day. Heck, it could be any moment. But it seems like it would be different to
know how quickly it was approaching.
When I got home from school, my
grandma called and said that my grandpa really wanted to see me. So, the next
day, my mom and I left for Defiance Ohio. I walked into his room and stared at
what little was left of this man that I loved. And I could feel my heart
breaking. My grandma was sitting in chair reading and he was just laying there.
His skin was so loose from all of the weight he had lost. He cheek bones were
more clearly defined than I had ever seen them. His eyes protruded a little
more than usual. Everything about him was skinny and frail. And when he saw me,
his face lit up, and in a voice that didn’t belong to him, he said, “Lulu
here’s to take care of me”. And
everything, all the strength in me, seemed to just melt away. And I went over
to him and grabbed his hand and kissed him and held onto him. I sat next to
him, holding his hand for nearly two hours. Both of us refused to let go. And
then, he just starting talking. And I listened to every word, trying to
remember everything he said. He talked about everything- there’s really no
better way to describe it. He seemed, so different. There was this peace about him, like I had
never seen before. He talked about how he just had to endured, how it was up to
the grace of God, how he could bare this burden of pain. He wasn’t worried
about himself at all. He was worried for those who would be left behind. He
went through and talked about the pastor he wanted at the funeral and how my brothers
would be pallbearers. He went through his grand kids and said how he would
think about each of them. And then he started crying and looked at me and
firmly grasped my hand and said “And then I thought of you. You’re special.
You’re special”.
And, I wish I knew what he meant
because I was sitting there, trying to be strong and falling apart at the
seams. I had been a coward about seeing him, afraid to speak, afraid of so many
things. And here he was saying that I was special. And I looked around and all
of us, my mom and grandmother and grandpa and me, were crying.
He talked about our family, about
how he was so glad my grandma would be financially ok, about which of my
cousins he was worried for, about his kids, about everything. He said how he
wished my little cousins would go to Sunday school. He talked about how he
thinks he done good in his life. He said how he tried to help people.
After a little while, he looked at
me and said with a smile, “I wouldn’t have danced with you at your wedding anyway.”
I suppose, I’ll never know, but I
still think I could have made it happen. But in that moment, I realized he
wouldn’t be there. That he would never see me graduate college, or get to
threaten my boyfriend, or dance with me at my wedding. I realized he would
never meet his great grand kids, or rather, they wouldn’t meet him. And for
some reason, I hated that. I hated that he wouldn’t be there. It was selfish,
but true.
After a bit, two of my
grandparents’ friends came in to visit him. I don’t know them well, and
honestly, didn’t care much that they were there. They came in and sat down, the
woman next to my grandma on the couch in the corner and the man in a folding
chair at the foot of my grandpa’s bed. My mom sat at his feet on his bed and I
sat in a chair by his head, still grasping his hand. The couple asked how he
was feeling, and went through what are apparently the normal formalities to
talk about with a dying man. And then, I noticed they started to do something
very interesting, something most humans do. They started incessantly talking.
The room couldn’t be quiet for all of 7 seconds without one of their obnoxious
voices penetrating the silence. And they talked about the most annoying things.
They talked and joked about some friend they knew, talked about money and jobs
and baseball. They asked me about
college and my major, and I lifelessly gave them the answers they didn’t really
care about. They talked and talked and talked. It was all about filling the
silence. But I wasn’t really listening. I was staring at my grandpa. I decided
to focus my attention of trying to remember him. I looked at hand in mine and
started comparing the two. They were similar. I remember looking and seeing how
similar our hands were. I looked at his skin and remember thinking about how
that skin had been through so many more years of life than mine had been. I
started praying that Jesus would come be with him. I started praying that he
would come hold my grandpa, ease his pain. My eyes traveled to his face. His
eyes were closed. Everyone in the room assumed he was asleep. After all, he was
on painkillers and all sorts of medicine that made him drowsy. But, I knew
better. We was awake. Every now and then his hand would twitch and his thumb
would rub soothing circles around the back of my hand. And suddenly, I realized
that me and my grandpa were on the same wavelength. And as I was thinking this,
the man’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Lowell, did you get a chance to catch
the Indians game the other day?” And then my grandpa said something I found
hilarious. “No, can’t say I’ve really been able to get into them.”
The whole situation was comical.
Here was my grandpa, dying, being asked if he cared about some stupid,
pointless, ridiculous baseball game. And all I could feel was the anger in my
heart and the stupidity of it all. The stupidity of these people, of humanity,
of this ‘reality’ that we cloak ourselves in. And it made me sick. Because this
man, couldn’t deal with the room. He couldn’t deal with depression. He couldn’t
deal with death. I realized that they talk to distract themselves. They were
too afraid to think about the things my grandpa was thinking, I was thinking.
And I realized that my grandpa had been closing his eyes trying to tune them
out. He didn’t care about anything they were saying. Because it was so damn
unimportant.
How often do we do this? I
understand that we, emotionally, can’t always give ourselves over to these
thoughts because they are literally too much for us to handle. We need
distractions, or maybe we just trick ourselves into thinking that. And I just
started thinking about how ridiculous we truly are. Sports and money and jobs
and school and this little society we have constructed and labeled as
“important” will one day fall away. How often have I spent nights ceaselessly
worrying about getting through my classes and having enough money for gas and
getting a job? How often have I worried about the outfit I’m going to wear and
the shoes that would compliment it. And
it all means nothing. At the end of it all, I am going to look into the eyes of
my God, and have to face him and myself. And everything else, none of it
matters.
I know what people will say. You
have to do the little things, go through the hoops, because that’s the world we
live in. If you’re going to survive, there are things you have to do. And you
know what, maybe they’re right. In order to survive, in order to support those
you love, we have to fall in line and worry. And maybe that’s why I get so
frustrated with the world. Because everything about my being and soul screams
that this isn’t my home. Everything inside me tells me that I am not meant for
this. The Everything in me is constantly reminding me that greater things are
yet to come. And I believe that in this room, full of stupid distractions, my
grandpa and me were thinking the same thing.
I continued to sit there, blocking
out the dumb chatter, and continued looking at this man who I may never see
alive again. His eyes remained closed, and his hand remained attached to mine.
He seemed so peaceful. And then his eyes opened and he looked at me and asked
“Are you hungry?” and I responded with the truth, “yes”.
“You should go get food. You should
go.” He replied. And I knew what he was saying. I couldn’t sit there forever.
We had to let each other go. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to leave him
with people who didn’t understand, I didn’t want to leave him at all. It seemed
stupid that I had to leave for some bodily function. But I knew he was right.
And I felt like I should tell him a million different things. I felt like there
was so much I needed to say. I wanted to tell him how much Jesus loved him. I
wanted to tell him how Jesus would take care of him. I felt like I needed to
say something to make sure it would all be ok. But as I looked at him, at this
man, the only words I could form were “I love you”. And they sounded so muffled
by my tears and I held his hand tighter and kissed him again and he just looked
at me and said, “It will be alright.”
I let go of his hand. It was the
hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I ran over to my grandma and she held me
tightly and just kept repeating, “He loves you so much”. And I ran back to him and kissed him again
and then I left. I left the two people I didn’t care about, and my grandma and
my grandpa. I walked back to my mom’s car and we drove to a Frisch’s Big Boy to
eat food, to take care of that annoying bodily function, just like my grandpa
had told me to do.
It was strange, saying goodbye,
without really saying goodbye. It was strange being able to see what we
normally try to ignore. Everything just seemed strange. I don’t really have any
more words. I guess this is the last thought I have. We spend so much time
trying to know things. We spend time trying to figure everything out. But I
think, we make things so complex. God has never asked us to know everything. He
has never said that we needed to. There is only one thing the Lord has
commanded and that is just to love- love Him, love His children, love His Son.
The rest is for God.
