Mister Chapter XII

Chapter 12 - November 28, 1995

FINAL CHAPTER. PLEASE BE SURE TO READ OLDEST CHAPTERS FIRST

            “Liz, I need to tell you that we received a call from the nursing home yesterday,” Gram began when I picked up the phone. “Grampy has contracted pneumonia, and he’s become very ill.  They don’t think he’s going to pull through.”

            I choked back a breath, so completely caught off guard by Gram’s words. “Can I go see him?” I asked, grabbing my purse and keys off the kitchen counter, angry at myself for not stopping by for the last two weeks after my bus route had been changed.

            “I think it would be a good idea,” Gram replied.

            We said a few more words I wouldn’t remember and less than five minutes later, I was in the car, on my way there.  Lisa was visiting from Virginia, and we rode silently together, the space between us filled with a sad heaviness.

            My mind was racing, and I couldn’t stop berating myself for not making the time to see him when I had the chance.  I was driving a school bus that year, and the lot was directly across the street from the home where Grampy had been taken to after a bad fall and hospital stay almost a year ago. At that time, the doctor had felt it was best that he be released to a residential home since he was no longer strong enough to walk, and his cognitive status was declining so rapidly.  It was a real struggle for Gram, who even considered signing herself into the home so she could be with him, but at 83 years old, she was as sharp and healthy as she had been in her sixties.

            Most days, I had a layover between routes and obtained permission to park my short bus in the nursing home parking lot to visit with Grampy.

             Initially, he was still somewhat conversational, but the new surroundings unsettled him. He wasn’t so sure about sitting in the recreation room with people encouraging him to tap a brightly colored ball from his wheelchair to some other residents in some strange, geriatric volleyball game fashion.

            “I don’t think I’d like to do this today,” he‘d say, and I would wheel him back to his room, where many familiar items from home had been set up for him.  Even with the Alzheimer’s advancing rapidly, Grampy was ever the stately old gentleman, simply saying, ‘Oh dear!’ if something bothered him enough to complain about.

            One day, I told Grampy we were going ‘visiting’, and brought him around to the doorways of the other residents, where he would peer in and offer a hearty ‘Hello!’  This was something he relished at first, possibly relating back to the days when he was a pastor, visiting with his parishioners.

            On another occasion, as I entered his room, he and a nurse who was busy changing his sheets, looked rather put off by each other.  The nurse told me she’d like me to take Grampy to the dining room, even though he said he wasn’t hungry.  I was happy to oblige, coaxing Grampy into ‘just taking a stroll’, as he continued to insist that he didn’t want to eat. 

            Eventually, our walk led us to the dining room.  I was startled as Grampy raised his voice. “I can’t believe you would do something like this to me!” His tone was sharp and angry.

            “Grampy, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” I was hoping the hurt and surprise wasn’t evident in my reply.  I knew he was expressing himself the only way he could at the moment, but he had never lashed out at me before in my life, and I felt like a guilty, chastised child.

            “You most certainly do, too,” his accusing eyes never wavered.

            “Well, if you think you’d like to head back to your room, we can go, now,” I offered, realizing he must have thought I was taking sides with the nurse he had resisted earlier.

            “Yes, I would like to go back, and then you can leave,” his tone was firm.

            Regretfully, I wheeled him back, inserted one of his music tapes into the tape recorder on his bedside table, and said good-bye.  The next day when I arrived, his face was beaming with recognition, the former rift between us long since forgotten.

            Now, our heels tapping lightly on the linoleum floor, Lisa and I made our way down the long corridor to his room.  His son, John, was at his bedside. 

            Grampy’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and shallow.  I touched his forehead, surprised at the heat that was emanating from his body.  Lisa and I stood there awhile, talking softly with John.  Sensing that he needed time alone with his dad, I excused us and offered to bring Lisa to see Gram.

            It had been a while since she had been to New Hampshire, and the reality of the situation showed on her face as Lisa slowly lowered herself to a chair in Gram’s living room.  Grampy’s suit had been laid out on the couch just a few feet away.  Understanding slowly spread across Lisa’s face as she eyed Grampy’s Sunday best, and she dissolved into tears.  Gram came over to her and held her hand.

            “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Beal!  I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around!”

            “I know it’s not easy to lose someone you love, Lisa,” Gram soothed. “We know he will be without pain soon, and we are thankful he will be in heaven with the Lord.”

            “I know, I’m thankful, too, but it’s so hard seeing him like this!” Lisa fumbled around in her purse for a tissue.

            “Dad would be comforted to know you’re near, and you care right now,” Gram offered, slipping as she sometimes did when referring to Grampy with us girls.

            We stayed a while longer, then drove back to my place, already emotionally spent.

            The next morning, I slipped in to see him again, but there were others in the room, so my visit was short.  Later, I brought the kids to the Christmas parade in Derry, which was always held the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  The crowd around me was joyful, bouncing to the beat of the marching bands, holding sticky fistfuls of popcorn and cotton candy, diving for the treats thrown from some of the local floats.

            “How can they be happy when the greatest man who ever lived lies dying in a lonely bed, not a mile down the road?” I thought glumly, wishing I could pack an overnight bag and hold a bedside vigil, but understanding that Grampy’s family needed privacy and time to say their good-byes.

             That old sense of not belonging had begun to creep in, but I reminded myself that Grampy had established our relationship many years ago.  More than giving me the name I now called him, he had shown me that he was, for all intents and purposes, my father.

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            The living room was packed.  Food adorned the tables and low, solemn conversation mingled with bursts of laughter at the recollection of days gone by.  Family and friends gathered in Gram’s living room after the funeral service was over. 

           All four of his children had said a few words, and John had officiated the ceremony, referring to his dad as “Old Iron Shoes”, a real man’s man.  He ended his message with the picture of us bidding Grampy farewell as his ship set sail, only to imagine it’s beautiful form docking in heaven with shouts of joy from loved ones on the other side. 

            Grampy would have been proud and pleased with the variety of loved ones packed into in his crowded living room that day.  Each face represented a soul that was somehow better off for having had him in their life. 

            His hunting buddies shared stories of teasing him for not praying hard enough to get even one deer in all the years they had hunted together.  Grandchildren offered memories of Grampy versus the groundhogs that used to outsmart him in the summertime.  Friends, family and loved ones all joined together to remember his life with respect, honor and love.

            Some hours later, I offered to remain and help Gram clean up afterward, and offered to return in the morning to help. I somehow went home and slept, yet as the new dawn found me standing next to her again at the sink, drying more dishes, I said, “Do you think he ever really knew how much he meant to me?”

            Gram nodded and was silent for a moment. “More importantly, I hope you will one day realize how much you meant to him. To us both.” 

Half smiling, her face had a wistful, far off look. “We agreed years ago that we needed you as much as you needed us when the Lord brought you into our lives as a tiny little baby.”

            The last of the dishes in the cupboard, I uncharacteristically put my arms around Gram, giving her a gentle hug. 

            “I’ll be sure to stop by tomorrow to get a grocery list from you,” I said as I shrugged on my coat. “I love you, Gram, and I‘m going to be here anytime you need me.”

            “I love you too, dear” her tired eyes showed the strain of the day.

 “Elizabeth?”

             I paused in the doorway on my way out. “Yes, Gram?”

            “Always remember - love is for keeps.”

END OF CHAPTERS.  PLEASE BE REMINDED TO READ THE OLDEST POSTS FIRST

Mister Chapter XI

Chapter 11 - Fall, 1994

            I placed my third baby, Michael’s, car seat on the dining room table, so Grampy wouldn’t have to stoop to the floor to talk to him.  He now walked with a cane and called me ‘That woman,’ when asking Gram to phone me, or when inquiring when I was coming back to visit, which I did at least every other day.

            He was losing his ability to communicate well, often showing effort when trying to explain his wants or needs.  His speech was faltering, and I got the sense that he was never satisfied with his own words once they escaped his mouth.

            He couldn’t remember names or places, but when he bowed his head to pray over a meal, the familiar words of thankfulness rolled off his tongue, right as rain.  More than once, my eyes misted at the thought of being included on such a basic, intimate and articulate communication between Grampy and his Lord. 

            My son, Michael, had arrived nearly four years after Danny, and he was always ready with a dimply smile for Grampy.

            “He knows who I am, yes, he knows who I am,” Grampy leaned in toward the baby, crooning to him in his masculine voice, which made Michael kick his legs and squeal with delight. 

            Noting Grampy’s words, I couldn’t help but think how very important it must be for him to sense that Michael knew him, when the rest of the world seemed so unfamiliar at times. He didn’t have to grapple for words when Michael wrapped his little fist around his finger as I had done more than twenty years before.  He would stand and play with the baby for long stretches of time, both of them sharing joyful, happy moments, communicating without words.

            Following Gram into the kitchen, I asked how things had been going since Grampy had set out on foot to find a barber the day before.

            “He’s restless, dear, and doesn’t understand why we can’t just let him take the car and go wherever and whenever the mood strikes.”

            Grampy had been determined to head back to the place where he’d been pastor many years ago, even going as far as to buy a second vehicle to park off the property, ready to use if anyone tried to stop him from leaving in the first car.  We all tread lightly but firmly in keeping him safe at home, with my husband even offering to drive Grampy the six hours to get there.  We’d made it a family time, Mark and Grampy in the lead car, with me trailing behind with the kids in our own vehicle, being sure to remain unnoticed until we reached our destination. 

            My time with Grampy began to be filled with attempted solutions to his everyday problems.  He wanted to figure out how to get seed into a bird feeder, or how to organize his books’ just so’, on a shelf. 

            Often, he would show me a solitary faded photo of himself as a baby, gaining great pleasure from the happy smile on his own, chubby little face.  He’d talk about his childhood and his brothers and sister while I listened.  His stories never became old or redundant to me because they were a window into the world he was now living, and his spirit of love and tenacity continued to shine through the confusion and forgetfulness.

            Often, when I would pack up the baby to go home, Grampy would stand up from his chair and say, “I hope you can leave, soon!”

             Knowing he meant the opposite, I would grin and reply, “I will, Grampy - real soon!”

            And so life remained, all of us intertwined somehow in the delicate dance of dementia, praying, loving and protecting the great man who had once so selflessly done the same for us.

Mister Chapter X

Chapter 10 - 1992

            “Don’t forget, I’m going to get baby Danny out of the nursery after the service is over.  You’ll be sure to let them know, won’t you?”  Grampy stopped me on my way downstairs to bring our second child, Mark Daniel, in with the other toddlers before the morning message.

            “I’ll be sure to tell them,” I promised.

            Mark and I had married two months after telling the news of my pregnancy and Shelli, our beautiful baby girl, had been born later that spring. We were blessed with a son nearly two years later, in March, 1990.

            Because both kids were ‘firsts’ - first children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, niece and nephew, and because most of the family all gathered at the same church, there was often much confusion in the rush to be the one to take them out of the nursery after services.

            I had noticed, in the last year-and-a half, or so, that Grampy began shuffling more and more as he walked, and he was no longer called upon to preach if the new pastor needed someone to fill in.

            His last sermon was forever etched in my mind.  Once an authoritative preacher, who’s strong voice captured the congregations’ attention while quoting passage after passage of scripture,  he had seemed to lose his stride more than once that time, with long pauses as he fought to remember verse or reference.  After a particularly long silence, scanning our faces as we secretly willed him to continue, he ended his sermon abruptly with a passage from the book of Philippians.

            “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

            Grampy had halted and looked around, first at the pianist, then at the congregation.  He felt for something in his pocket, then flipped through his Bible, the seconds ticking deafeningly behind us on the wall clock.

            Jim, my father-in-law and song leader, quickly went up to the podium, and led everyone in a short prayer, after which, he thanked Grampy and told everyone to turn to page 355 in our hymnals.

            I made a promise to myself then and there, to memorize for myself the passage that suddenly seemed so important for Grampy to leave with us, my sense of nostalgia warning me to sit up and pay attention.  I had just witnessed the end of Grampy’s powerful, spirit-blessed career as a preacher.

            After that day, his smile remained just as bright as ever, but I could sense a war going on underneath.  He appeared to be perplexed that old age had finally caught up with him, after being a leader physically and spiritually in his home, church and business for more than half a century.

            Now, I had to find a way to get down to the nursery to get Danny before he could beat me to it.  The stairs were steep and I had been warned by some church members that it was too dangerous for him to maneuver the stairs with Danny in his arms.

            I breathed a sigh of relief as I quickly reached the nursery door and gathered my son to show Grampy he didn’t have to go all the way downstairs to get him, after all.

            “There’s my boy!” he thundered as Danny ran to him, hugging his knees. “I was just on my way to get you, but I guess your mother decided to bring you to me, instead.  Now wasn’t that nice of her!” Grampy beamed at me.

            “I sat in the back and decided to beat the rush,” I was thankful I hadn’t hurt his feelings.

            Driving home with Mark and the kids, I vowed I would visit more than just once a week to help Gram with her housekeeping.

            That night, I received a call from Gram, her words cryptic, telling me Grampy wanted to speak to me.

            “Hello? Hello? I was wondering if you could come help me reset my Christian radio settings in my car,” Grampy’s voice was insistent. “I think someone’s been in my car and played with the radio, and now I can’t find the program I like.”

            “Sure, Grampy.  I’ll be there in the morning and walk you through it.”

            Gram came back on the phone and thanked me before hanging up, her lack of explanation telling me there was more to the story.

            The next morning was uneventful as I sat in the car, showing Grampy how to reset his radio, doubtful anyone else had manipulated his settings. Satisfied that the job was complete, he walked in the direction of the bookstore, now being run by his youngest son and daughter-in-law, and I went in search of Gram.

            “Glad I could help him out,” I began, hoping Gram would fill me in on her thoughts about the phone call last night and this morning’s mission in Grampy‘s car.

            It wasn’t the first time Grampy had asked Gram to call me so he could discuss a pressing need or thought.  I had always been grateful I could assist him and didn’t think much of it until recently, when the calls became more frequent and urgent.

            “He’s getting more forgetful, lately,” Gram said. “He’s been tested, and we’re told he has Alzheimer’s disease.  We’re taking measures to make sure he’s safe here at home, trusting the Lord each day.” She was speaking of herself and her only daughter, who had come home to help out.

            “I hope you don’t mind the silly calls, sometimes.  It makes him feel better to talk to you,” she said, sheepishly.

            Gram and I had developed an adult relationship that was loving and frank, so I looked her square in the eye.

            “Gram, you know I love Grampy more deeply than if he was my very own father.  I consider it an honor to be here for you both for as long as you need me.  If he called me every night of the week, I would be happy to talk to him.  I can never repay either of you for your love all these years, and I love you back so much, it hurts.  I want you to know I’m always available to help.”

            Gram, never one to get mushy and sentimental, said, “We’re very thankful for you, dear.” And that was that.

Mister Chapter IX

Chapter 9 - 1988

            My fingers were shaking as I brought the envelope to my lips to seal it.  Though I still regularly visited with Gram and Grampy, I decided to put my thoughts on paper and let the mailman deliver this letter.  I had scribbled and scratched out a few different attempts at putting paper to my thoughts, finally forcing myself to just get it over with.  My tongue was dry, so I removed the letter from the envelope to read over one last time before continuing:

            Dear Gram,

                        I am writing this to you because I want you to know that I am pregnant.  I                            know you must be so disappointed in me after all the ways you taught me                                 right from wrong.  I don’t know why God has given me this child, but I                                   want to thank him in the best way I know how - and that’s by turning my                            life over to Him and trying to be half the mother you have been to me.  I’m             asking if you will tell Grampy for me.  I just don’t have the heart to.  I’m                              so, so sorry, Gram, and I hope someday you can forgive me for not                                 living my life the way you showed me by your words and example.  I won’t               blame you if you don’t want me in your life anymore.  I love you ~Liz        

           

            Fear and butterflies accompanied the nausea in my stomach throughout the days after I mustered the courage to mail it.  Gram must have thought it was strange when she received the letter - I had been over there just the week prior.  Each time I went, I waited to see whether they would notice my swelling stomach, but nothing was ever said.  Heavy guilt drove me crazy (could they tell I was pregnant, or couldn’t they?) until I just couldn’t take it anymore.

            My boyfriend and I were renting a small addition to an old lodge in Danville, an obscure little town about 35 minutes away from the Beal’s.  Starting out with nothing but two pillows, a blanket and a bucket for ice that we refilled at the neighbors to keep our perishables cold, we were ‘living on love’.  He was attending the police academy for a small town position and I had just given up my job working with circuit boards and chemicals because of the warning labels for pregnant women.

            Having been told I may never have children due to the scar tissue on my insides from my ruptured appendix as a child, I was completely shocked when, as a favor to a friend of mine who didn’t want to be embarrassed taking a pregnancy test alone at the infirmary of our large company, her test came back negative, but mine was ‘very’ positive.

            This was a time when I began wrestling with God.  I had completely ignored Him after and during my dark days with the church youth leader.  I never blamed God for what happened to me, or hated the church because even as a teen, it didn’t seem fair to judge Him on the actions of people here on earth.  I had just come to a point in my life where I didn’t think about God much at all.

            With the promise of new life in me, I took a long, hard look at my own life, and at the examples of those who had a part in raising me, good and bad.  Deciding I didn’t want to teach my child something I didn’t really believe in myself, I chose to find out for myself whether I wanted to have faith in God, not because people I loved said he existed, but because I found Him to be real for myself.  I wanted to eliminate the middle man and figure it all out - with Him or without Him.

            Two days passed with no word from Gram.  We had no phone, and I didn’t want her knowing I was living with my boyfriend, so I had pretended to rent a room at my neighbor’s, giving her that number in case she ever needed to reach me.  Sandy arrived on my doorstep on the third day, motioning for me to come take a call.

            I picked up the receiver off my neighbor’s counter.“Hello?” It came out of me as more of a question than a salutation.

            “Liz, it’s Grammy.  We reveived your letter.  We love you and miss you, and want to see you.”

            “Ok, Gram.  Can I come over now?” I asked.

            “We’ll be here,” was her reply, and the call was over.

            That instant, I understood grace.  Gram didn’t accuse, complain or berate me.  She just wanted to let me know she loved me. Her and Grampy’s own faithful examples had saturated me with knowledge in the form of verses, Bible stories and family prayer, but it was all external to me until this moment in time.  A song came to me then, one that Grampy had often sung to himself as he went about his day.

            ‘Heaven came down and glory filled my soul. When at the cross my Savior made me whole.  My sins were washed away, and my night was turned to day. Heaven came down, and glory filled my soul.’…

            I couldn’t begin to explain what happened then and there.  I ceased trying to figure out what I could do to be good enough for God.  I realized just an inkling of the love He had for me to offer me His grace.  When I couldn’t reach to Him in my own strength, Heaven came down.  

            Gram could have judged me, but she didn’t.  And it was because of her own relationship with God.  I jumped in the car, making a beeline to their home.

            “I would like to be the one to tell Mark’s parents, if it’s alright with you,” Grampy had been waiting for me in his recliner when I arrived. “Unless Mark would rather they hear it from him.”

            I knew Mark hadn’t even told his family I had moved back to New Hampshire with him, and he didn’t know how to approach the subject with them, either, so I thanked Grampy.

            “His dad and I go way back.  I led him to the Lord as a teenager back in Mars Hill when I was a pastor,” Grampy reminisced. “I’m going to share how wonderful the Lord is to allow us to be grandfathers together, and what a precious gift this baby is to both our families!”

            We talked on and on about plans for marriage, giving my life and the future of my baby to the Lord, and how God is so good to offer His gifts to us, even when we don’t do things the way we should. 

            A week or two earlier, I walked out of Grammy and Grampy’s home with a guilty heaviness and self-recrimination I couldn’t shake until I gave in and told them the truth about living with Mark and expecting his child.

            Today, we had spent easy hours talking it all out, they prayed with me, handed me a Bible and sent me on my way, assured of their love and forgiveness. I had never felt so sure of Heaven as I did at that moment.

MISTER Chapter VIII

Chapter 8 - 1987

            “I want to show you something,” Grampy brought a piece of paper over to where I was sitting on the couch. “These are the payments and total of what you owe on the car I had to sell.  I’m taking off the amount I sold it for, and the balance comes to $950.”

            I squirmed in my seat. At nearly twenty years old, I still shrank back when I knew I’d disappointed him. “I’m sorry, Grampy, I know I left you with that mess and never called…”  Grampy was referring to my first car, a white Ford Grenada he had helped me buy during one of my many new starts in life.

             After moving south to live with my mother and sisters, I had made the best of things and walked or took the bus on Sundays to a vibrant church youth ministry, but my adolescent heart had become more and more confused and angry as I tried to figure out just where I fit in on the planet.  I wasn’t tall or smart, like Robyn, nor was I compliant and cheerful like Lisa.  My figure had filled out beyond my years, and I turned a lot of heads when walking down the street, so I clung to that which made me feel special.

            One of the church counselors, a man eight years my senior, had taken a special interest in me, first offering to drive me home, then taking me out to eat.  It wasn’t long until his true motives showed and his conversation turned in an explicit sexual manner.  Everything culminated one night when he told me if I didn’t go through with what he wanted, I would be fearful for the rest of my life, and never try it again.  Confused and frightened, I allowed him to do with me what he would.

            Guilt overcame me and I thought the only way to make it right was to marry him, which I did illegally, in Las Vegas at the age of 15.  He hired and paid a legal escort to go with him and pose as me to sign papers for the marriage license, using a doctored immunization card I had provided.  License in hand, he and I drove to The Little Chapel of the Flowers on July 19, 1982 and said our vows.  One Polaroid photo was offered to us free of charge when we declined a photographer.

            Teenaged married life proved to be painful in more ways than one. My new husband, a private in the Army in Monterey, California, became progressively abusive. As I lay awake at night, I would devise plans to secretly sell what little we had for a ticket out of there.  Once, his parents bought me a bus ticket to live with Robyn, who was now a Marine stationed in Chicago, after seeing me with a swollen, black eye.  I lasted a few days in Illinois until I received a call from their son, offering a bus ticket back home while promising me his undying love and affection.  And so, feeling very alone, dependent and afraid, I returned. 

            On New Year’s Eve, 1984, at just 17 years old, I left him for good.  I called Grampy’s youngest son collect, telling him I was stranded at an airport in Texas.  He bought me a ticket to New Hampshire.  That fresh start ended with me living in a car because I was too wild and coarse to be tamed by he and his wife, and they asked me not to ask Gram and Grampy for help.  I agreed, afraid of this wild stranger I had become, doing whatever I could to ease the ravaging inner pain, and I too, wanted to shield Grampy, especially, from my present, reckless lifestyle.

            I visited Gram and Grampy often, got mixed up with the wrong crowd, slept on couches, lied about myself, and generally vacillated between self-pity and anger.  Alcohol and drugs became a part of my life, and I scraped by the best I could.  It was during one of those short-lived bursts of self-improvement that Grampy had taken me to his car dealer and helped me buy the Granada to get to and from work. 

            I promised to pay, and followed through once or twice, but then parked the car in Grampy’s driveway and decided on a whim to move to Virginia to live with Lisa and her new husband, after I’d lost yet another job.  I had recently become involved with the boy I had been so fond of the day I was in hiding from my father as a child, and he followed me out to Virginia a week or two later, only to move us back home to NH a few months after that.

            Eventually, and after many attempts to reach me to find out if I would reclaim it, Grampy sold the car and let me know.  I had avoided all conversation about it, thereafter.

            Now, sitting on his sofa, I stumbled over my reply. 

            “I’m going to do something for you, Elizabeth.  I’m showing you this paper so you can see the payments I made on your behalf while you were gone.  This was an agreement between you and I, but you didn’t pay me, so I had to sell the car,” Grampy’s voice had a firm, yet gentle quality, which made me feel even worse for letting him down. 

            “I’m forgiving you this debt, which means our account is settled, and we don’t ever have to bring it up again.”

            Thinking I should say something, but not knowing how to express my gratitude, I nodded.  Both my guilt and relief were compounded by his generous, no-strings-attached offer.

            “I think Grammy needs you to wash up and  help set the table, now.” Grampy put the ledger in his shirt pocket and walked away, whistling.

            I mechanically rose and made my way to the kitchen to help Gram.

            Grampy never mentioned the car or the money again.