Train Ride

A year ago today, I boarded a train bound for Richmond to see my grandfather for what would be the last time. R was getting toward the end of her pregnancy with the twins, so she told me that weekend would be a good one for me to go spend time with him. In my conscious mind, I didn't want to go, but subconciously I felt like there was a cloud hanging over me; the specter of his not being long for this world.

I don't remember much about the ride down. I was reading Amanda Foreman's "A World On Fire" about Great Britain's role in the American Civil War. I remember going over 14th Street in DC. They had a new VRE station there. Good for them.

Once on the other side of the Potomac, when I had service again, I called R to check in. She was angry with me for leaving something or not cleaning something up or both. I don't recall exactly.

Just like any other means of conveyance in Northern Virginia, we limped along and arrived in Fredericksburg at about dusk. My interest was particularly piqued because I was at the Battle of Fredericksburg in my book. I looked southwest to Marye's Heights and saw Lee's vantage point. No wonder he crushed them.

When we limped in to Richmond, both of my parents were at the station to pick me up. My mother thanked me profusely for coming. I knew that she thought I was there for her and not because I needed my own closure.

The next morning, I woke up and we ended up hanging around the house until about noon because he was sleeping until about that time. He slept a lot at the end. I would sleep a lot, too, if I was nearing expiration. Why the hell not?

I saw the nurse's car as we drove up to the farmhouse. It was a Ford Fusion. When we came in through the garage door, no one was in the kitchen. The house still smelled the same. I inhaled deeply. I walked around looking at all the tchotchkes that A brought when she moved in. Then I looked for the familiar tchotchkes; all of Gaga's crap.

A came down and gave us a big hug. Despite my mother's insistence that she was being melodramatic, I found her to be quite calm. She directed us over to the den/office. It still looked the same.

"He's just going to the bathroom," she informed us, almost under her breath. Then, the door to what had been a closet but was now an elevator to his bedroom opened and there he was in a white bathrobe. He was hunched over, had a walker, but could barely walk. The nurse was pretty much propping him up.

I didn't get the requisite "Well, hello, old boy! Whataya know?" He just smiled at me with a pathetic, yet genuine smile. I could tell it made his year to see me. It wasn't him. It was pathetic.

The Orioles were playing the Yankees and I asked him if he wanted to watch "Well, sure," he said in his genteel Virginia accent. We talked baseball for an inning or two. We could always talk baseball.

I called R because I wanted her to say hi. I had her on speakerphone and she asked how he was doing. He said "Great," and looking at me "because I got you here." From anyone else, that would have been heartwarming. But, considering this was coming from the hitherto prickly-yet-warm-hearted man that was Mr. G, it was heartbreaking. It wasn't him.

Meanwhile, A, my mother, and the nurse were in intense discussions about his bowel movements. How humiliating, I thought. He deserves better. But, I supposed that this was fairly normal discussion for loved ones of the dying.

My mother asked me if I wanted lunch, but I wasn't hungry. I just wanted to get out of the house. Fortunately, he had to go down for another nap. This is the last time I would see him stand up. I knew it was the last time.

I went out for a walk around the farm. Since I knew this was the last time, I took copious amounts of pictures. I wanted to capture every view I could from my childhood; literally document the memories of what was, for me as a child, a grand, impressive, and almost magical place.

The sky was grey and it was windy, but since it was Richmond in early September, it was still quite warm. I listened to my steps crunch the gravel. God, it was such a ubiquitous sound when I was a kid. I took a video of my steps just to capture the sound. When you watch it, you hear not only the steps, but the familiar whoosh of cars and tractor-trailers on nearby Interstate 64.

He started to bleed uncontrollably the next day and had to go to the hospital. At one point, he coded. I don't have a suit, I thought. What am I going to wear if there is a funeral? This is where I went. Protection through distraction?

I took the train back to Connecticut on Labor Day. From that point on, he came and went, touch and go, day to day, until he succumbed late on the night of October 26. That weekend would be Superstorm Sandy. We called it Hurricane Harry. Only he would have his funeral in a hurricane. He probably would have screamed at it.

I miss you terribly.