Four Chances at Love

Everyone's families are a little different - different makeups and memberships, different patterns of seeing one another, different frequencies of communication, different habits and traditions. Growing up, my family had the blessing of proximity, for the most part, and we had easy access to our grandparents, never having to drive more than half an hour or so to see them.

I lost my first grandma, my mom's mom, when I was only a few years old. I remember her face a little and vaguely remember being poolside with her at a hotel. I remember kneeling at her funeral and not knowing much of what was going on, yet learning that people don't in fact live forever. Grandma was the grandparent I know only by stories and pictures.

I lost my Papa, my dad's dad, when I was in fifth grade. That fall, he was diagnosed with cancer, I think lung and throat, the result of many years of smoking and being generally stodgy and Irish in behavior. Papa held on for three months before his chemo ceased, and he faded on toward the next life. I remember praying for him in homeroom at school and playing fuseball with friends whose parents had brought them to Papa's memorial Mass and reception.

Thank God, beyond that, I remember Papa pouring brandy over my grandma's homemade Irish Christmas Pudding and setting it ablaze, much to the delight of his grandchildren, awed by pyrotechnics, and to his own mixed emotion, as alcohol burned off into the air rather than heading down his gullet; I remember Papa having a Guinness with dinner and then sitting in his chair - that no one else dared sit in - to puff on his pipe or cigarettes and even let his grandkids climb all over him to push rings out of his mouth by poking at his protruding, smoke-filled cheeks. Papa was the grandparent I know a little better, but mostly by token memories.

I lost my grandpa, my mom's dad, when I was in eighth grade. A metal-in-his-back WWII vet, Papa endured strongly until a couple strokes confined him to a wheelchair, complete with arm-sling and leg-braces to support the side of his body wracked by the damage to his brain. Grandpa moved from assisted living, to intensified assisted living, to a border-line-hospital nursing home. We would make our visits to take him to restaurants he found coupons for, to eat with him at his building where he'd lovingly patronize the young lady waitresses with his comments, or to help sort through the hoarded stashes of junk and as-seen-on-TV products cluttering his apartment.

Thank God, beyond that, Grandpa told us stories from his days in the city and near suburbs, of the characters he met and worked with. Grandpa would call to ask which TV station the Cubs were on today. And as he'd struggle to get in and out of the car or occasionally succumb to incontinence, my dad faithfully supported my mom and her love of her father by helping him from wheelchair to car and back, by pulling up his drawers, soiled or clean, as they drooped off his rear, and cleaning the car-seat when grandpa didn't quite make it to the bathroom.

I was old enough to appreciate that this proud, capable man had built a strong family and welcomed spouses in to marry his kids, that he had survived a war, that he loved to treat people and bring them in for a personal moment or conversation, and that he loved his grandkids, whether they were by his side or pushing his wheelchair. Grandpa was the grandparent that I knew a little personally, even if only at the surface, and appreciated as a person before he passed away.

Since Grandpa died when I was still a young teenager, it was just before I had really matured, especially socially. Visiting him still felt like an obligation, a chore. It was something I did because mom wanted us to - I remember telling mom how much I disliked visiting Grandpa's last home because it felt like a hospital; she told me that she didn't like it either, but she appreciated that I'd come with her. In hindsight, it would have been great to have appreciated Grandpa on a less token and more personal level, but the arc of my life and maturation pointed me to one more chance.

Soon after my Papa died, my dad and his siblings worked with their mother, my grandma "Mena," to help her decide what might be best for her living situation. Mena took advantage of a great early-00's housing market and the prime real estate demand in her area. She sold her home of 40 years and thus secured a great nest egg to support the rest of her life. She moved into a municipally owned senior apartment center where she could live comfortably, safely, and independently.

As she settled into her new digs, my dad made a habit of visiting on Sunday nights. It was an open invite he'd put out there to us around dinner time - "I'm going out to Mena's; anyone who would like to join me is more than welcome." So in no particular pattern, my brothers, mom, and I would take turns making the trek with dad to Wilmette, and in groups of 2, 3, 4, or 5, we'd visit Mena for a few hours on Sunday nights.

Tea, brown bread, and various desserts and cakes were always in the offing. Sometimes we'd bring homework or nap on the couch, but most of the time, we'd simply sit around Mena's quaint little kitchen table. Occasionally, dad would help her sort out business matters, or we'd assist with a household chore. Either way, we'd always chat. Mena wanted to hear our stories, and dad wanted her to tell us hers. In a classically Irish fashion, the teapot and plates were always full. And around those staples, the conversation flowed.

As I grew up, I came to appreciate what these visits really meant. Sure, you could get your fill of hot tea and tasty treats. But the more important part was that Mena, who was stubbornly independent and sharp as a tack, could count on regular visitors who she was utterly delighted to host. I gained a more personal relationship with Mena, and she knew about the ins and outs of my increasingly adult life. I got to play wingman to dad, and dad got to play wingman to Mena. My brothers understood the importance of these visits, too, and my mom, sad to have lost her own parents, really appreciated Mena all the same and delighted in their closeness.

In late January, Mena didn't make her daily morning call to the police, so they came to check on her. Mena was taken to the ICU where they found some bleeding in her brain, and three days later, she passed away, surrounded by her five children.

A few months earlier, we celebrated her 90th birthday in November. It was understatedly lavish, a hearty run of family style food that brought together her five children, 15 grandchildren, a growing web of significant others, and a swath of Mena's friends and acquaintances. The greatness of the party had nothing to do with the fare or the atmosphere - it was Mena's utter delight at the day's festivities. Above all, Mena just always wanted all of her loved ones to be spending time together, and it made her happy when we came together. We did it for her and our love of her.

After dozens and dozens of Sunday visits, I understood that, and I understood her - a sweet, faithful, and loving Irish grandmother who simply wanted to gather a people to herself, to themselves, to God. As my dad said about his wonderful eulogy of her, it's an easy story to tell. I thank God that my parents taught me the importance of hearing these stories.

You only get four chances at grandparents, and each chance taught me something more. Take advantage of every chance you get, and learn more and more the love of God.