Requiem for a Grandfather

The thing I will always remember about my grandfather's funeral will not be the thousands of people who showed up from all corners of the earth. It will not be his seven children or 18 grandchildren or 11 great grandchildren exhausted after keeping vigil by his side after 4 months in the hospital. It won't be the century-old buddies or the former employees, students or colleagues that paid tribute.

It will be the way his culture bid him farewell. Aged men gazing on their crony with deep sadness and a surge of disbelief. For here lay the man who cheated old age for more than a century. The way the women cradled his stone cold head in their hands, blessing his forehead with the love only a woman can bestow. The way my cousins Polly and Patty's voices broke when they sang a medley of Amazing Grace. So much so that the audience picked up the melody so the girls' voices, thickened by grief could rest. The way my cousin Yvonne sobbed at the closing of his casket and told the congregation, I cry not for him but myself for he is no longer here to guide me. I have to find someway to find the answers inside me now. The music performed by my cousins Rekha and Tommy which gave eerie beauty to such a somber ceremony.

Most of all I will remember the rain pouring down during the funeral service but the clouds blowing away as we drove to the cemetery. The sunlight as it bathed us and the casket as we tossed roses upon it.

Most of all, the sense of closure as the most important familial chapter of my life ended with the casket was lowering into the earth.

Veeraiah B. Chedalavada. January 13, 1907 – March 29, 2009

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.