Let me tell you about my Grandfather

On the brink of his 102nd birthday, hands began to mean a lot to my grandfather. You see for the first time in his life he found himself stuck in a hospital. Not because he was suffering from a heart attack or a stroke or cancer. Nothing so mundane or unhealthy for Gramps. Instead he was doing hard time in a hospital bed, ICU to be precise because he was the object of a hit and run incident.

Mind you, this was a man who walked 10 miles at the very least on a daily basis. It was on such a walk that he was struck by a van! no less and left to fend for himself. Days later our family found him admitted to a Washington hospital admitted at John Doe. Thus his 102nd birthday found him battered, weak but alive.

There are some people you never imagine growing oled, even when they are. He's one of them. Even as my parents age before my eyes, even as I see my grandfather walk slower and listen harder. Even as I feel my joints aching for no reason or small print harder to read. Even as all these things occur do I contemplate my Gramps' mortality. Not until I saw him in the ICU ward of the hospital.

The hospital has to be the most ironic of places. It's supposed to epitomize healing in western civilization and yet, it's the most depressing, unhealthiest place on earth. Only there did I believe his mortality. In a hospital bed with pesky tubes infiltrating arms and chestal cavities, lungs and throat. The things the body does without being asked is quite astonishing. And yet, when tallied up, there's aren't enough machines on the planet that could duplicate the symphony of it's capabilities.

With Gramps encumbered by life sustaining tube his range of motion was severely restricted. Therefore hands became his focus, his primary means of communication. Hands, first of all since his were injury-free. He held ours as we visited, using them to convey voice and emotions as his were restricted. Even though he sustained considerable injuries to his back, internal organs, head and legs, his hands were in pristine condition. I couldn't help but think how beautifully shaped his nails were. Or how limber and gnarl-free his joints.

At first I talked but stopped when I sensed his distress at not being able to reciprocate. So I massaged his hands, encouraging circulation as gently as possible. He squeezed back, not quite content with this small physical act. He touched my watch, fingering the face, the dials, the links. At first I thought he wanted to wear it, but he shook his head when I offered it. Then I realized he was pointing to time in the symbolic sense. Was he trying to tell me it was running out? I feared this to be the case.

But that was 2 months ago. Gramps celebrated his 102nd birthday in the hospital and is now in a recovery unit. He's walking again, slowly but walking indeed. I can't wait to see him again and hold his hand.

The Biker and the Baby

I had not seen him for years. At least a decade. He was caught up in his life, hunting down his passion for freedom, speed and community. I knew him as Praveen, younger cousin. Shy, giving and slyly funny.

He died in a motorcycle crash at the age of 41. He told friends if he should ever get into another crash (yes, there had already been one) then he wanted the plug pulled. Not to live an undignified life in a decaying body without the hope of ever straddling a bike or feeling the power of a couple hundred horses at your fingertips. Luckily no one had to make the decision. While his brain was already 90% dead his body followed 2 days later.

His friends knew him as Bean. Friends I never met nor ever knew in association with him. But these friends, a biker association known as the Tradesmen gave him an honor he would have appreciated. Some 50 motorcycles escorting his body as it was given to the earth on a cold Maryland November.

Odd how life finds a way to balance itself in every act. While i was still assimilating my cousin's loss Thanksgiving rolled around. Food, movies, food and more food. Cousins, my most memorable childhood playmates and now, most precious companions fill every hour of the holiday. Then in perfect sychronicity, I see my new neice and Goddaughter, Sophia. A mere 5 months old and impossibly beautiful. She gladly climbs into my arms, unknown to her except for a few hours after birth while her mother regained strength enough to carry her tiny body.

She is sassy and charmingly grumpy. The things a baby can get away with! She has gray eyes. GRAY EYES! And she is fresh and decidedly unconcerned about the economy, or the state of the Yen or Ruble or Rupee.

As one of us passes to his next life another steps into our world, taking her place in the family strata. It is heart breaking, yet fitting. The family moves on.