In 1984, I received a phone call from my brother letting me know that my grandfather had passed away. Unusual circumstances, as always with my emotionally dysfunctional family, as my grandfather was only living 10 min. away from my house in Hamburg – whereas my brother lived 2 hours away. My parents had jumped in the car to race to my grandmother´s side, ordering my the 16-yr-old brother to be the bearer of the bad news. (Anything worked as long as they did not have to address any emotional issues, years later it was my Dad´s secretary calling me to tell me of my grandmother´s death….) This time, however, was my first encounter with death. The first time I was old enough to consciously experience the passing away of a loved one. I was 20 years old.
I remember the day´s events like it was yesterday. I was numb, and had called a cab as I was worried I would be too distraught to drive myself. The cab pulled up and it was a huge, black Citroen coupe, the old kind where you sink into the seat cushioning while the tail end gets lifted by hydraulic pumps to provide a butter- soft ride. I had always dreamed of owning one of these, and remember thinking: “This thing looks just like a hearse…how fitting that I would get to ride in it today” And I also remember feeling so small, huddled alone into the furthest corner of the expansive back seat, crying as the city passed by the windows. The driver took his time, and I was grateful, as I really did not know what was expected of me. How would I deal with all this – how face my grandma ? We were so close, she was everything to me – but today she would not be my safety haven, instead I wanted to be hers.
I reached the house, walked up the steps, and opened the ground floor apartment door with my own keys. My parents were already there, my grandma surrounded by them and the funeral director. I asked to see my grandfather, and was told that he was still in his bed, the way my grandma had found him. I was glad to get out of the room, and they were glad to not have to deal with me, so I went to see granddad.
In hindsight, I am eternally grateful for the hour that followed.
I opened the bedroom door, and there he was as I had seen him all my life since I grew up in their house as a toddler: his back turned to me, on his side, his head resting on his right hand, while his left hand was resting in front of his chest. My grandma had placed one of her laced handkerchiefs over the nightlight, giving the room a soft glow. I walked around the bed and saw his face: he had the most peaceful, relaxed smile I can remember on him on his face.
I sat on the floor leaning against the bed, looking at him. He was wearing one of his favorite cotton PJs, white with sky-blue and yellow stripes, a light-blue beading around the hem and a pressed collar like a shirt, with a folded hanky showing in the small chest pocket. Years earlier, I would find him dressed like that in the pantry, the small single bulb above him swaying and shining on him like a stage light, as he was stealing a few cold, boiled potatoes. Now, he looked like a boy in his striped pyjamas, asleep, dreaming of his favorite toy.
Knowing what I know now, years later, it must have been heavenly bliss showing on his face. After having made it through WWII, a prisoner of war in Russia, lifelong financial struggles, the loss of his ability to play his violin due to arthritis, joy-limiting diabetes – leaving this place and being re-united with his mother must have made him immensely happy.
I got to spend an hour with him, before the funeral people needed to do their thing. It was one of the happiest, most peaceful hours of my life.
I held his hand throughout, it was soft and felt like his crippling arthritis had magically gone away. I got to thank him for years of sacrifices while they helped raise me, got to apologize for those times when I was an obnoxious teenager and ungrateful, got to laugh and cry with him about the memories we made. And even though it had always been my grandma who I felt closest with, this one hour with him made up for the years, still makes up within my soul during the many times when death crossed my path. I know since this day: death is not scary, death means to go home.
My grandfather died on a Saturday. The Wednesday before, I had come around for tea, as was our tradition on Wednesdays. My grandparents had their sitting order around the coffee table, but that very Wednesday granddad asked me to take his chair in front of the TV, while he took my place on the couch. I found that odd, but agreed. He then handed me a photo album, one of the first ones where you could stick your shots behind a foil without the need to glue them in place. He had always been the designated family photographer, recording all our family events onto slides and paper. Therefore in that album were photos of me through 20 years: from newborn baby to more recent occasions. He gave me the album saying: “I am getting too old now, and with my arthritis it is getting difficult. You like taking photos, and I want you to have this and complete the album as you go through the years ahead.” I was very moved, and thanked him with a kiss. We went on with tea, and a couple of hours later I got ready to leave.
At the door, I looked at the album in my hands, then looked at granny next to me – and that was when it hit me. I walked back into the living room, where granddad was still sitting in his unfamiliar spot on the couch. I stopped in the door, looking at him, pointing to the album in my hand, shrugging my shoulders to form a question. He smiled a little smile and nodded. I hugged him again, a bit longer and a bit tighter. It wasn´t until 4 days later that I confirmed that he had said his good-bye. And it wasn’t until a few weeks later, that I realized that he must have wanted me to sit in his chair at the coffee table, to see what it would look like once he was gone.
On the Wednesday he passed away, he had put on a freshly pressed blue, yellow and white striped piyama, folded and stuck a hanky in the chest pocket in front of the hallway mirror, and joined my grandmother in the kitchen, where she was ironing. She told me later that he had come in and announced to her “Ils-chen, I will go and have my nap now.” When she turned around, he gave her a kiss, which she found strange as affections where rarely exchanged in the days. He then went to bed and to sleep, peacefully, to wake up on the other side.
I have no recollection of the funeral. As I had already said my good-byes with him in private, I guess it was just another ceremony. The family had asked me if I wanted to see him in his suit with his carnations before the casket was closed, and I am glad I declined – as I still see him to this day with the soft glow of his nightlight shining on his smile and his striped pyjamas.
He has been with me ever since. I could feel his presence on and off. But it was not until this morning that I realized how close he still is, how much he still is a part of my life.
I bought new PJs for my son last fall. As they were still too big then, he only just fits into them now, and has been wearing them for the last couple of nights.
This morning, he was standing in front of me while I was enjoying my morning coffee on the balcony. He looked so cute in his white cotton PJs with their sky-blue and yellow stripes, a light-blue beading around the hems, a shirt collar and a small pocket on the front. He had a peaceful smile on his face, as the sun came around the corner behind him and started to give him a bit of a glow….
My life has come full circle. And though I am hardly finished, I feel very accomplished today. I am grateful to granddad for coming by this morning to give me his approval, by pointing out my blessings to me and making me see how I indeed have preserved so much of the memories we shared – albeit subconsciously – with a striped pyjama.
Comments