Phantoms in our lives

Ahoy everyone--this here is going to be a very, very long and sad post. I initially considered breaking it up into two separate stories, but I'd rather condense the solemnity into one story than spread around my personal sadness. I hope you'll consider reading it all the way through, because it means a lot to me. Maybe it will mean a lot to you.

A couple days ago, I wrote a post talking about my own personal thoughts on religion. Initially, I was planning on talking about something else, but I wanted to do a little word-vomiting first. I don't know what my thoughts are on the afterlife (or an afterlife at all), I don't know if I can wrap my mind around the idea of dedicated places of eternal agony and suffering and perpetual paradise. What's the real, nuanced dividing line separating the Good from the Bad? Is it a numbers thing--can I do X amount of good to negate Y amount of bad, or if I commit even one small transgression am I screwed? Neither system seems especially fair or logical, but hey--if there is an afterlife, surely it has to fall closer to one of those two ends of the spectrum.

It's been on my mind a bit though, because of a very unexpected...encounter...I had while on Facebook a few nights ago. I'll come back to this in a bit, but I need to get a (long) story out of the way first.

My grandfather passed away just over a year ago, so his death had been on my mind recently, thinking of that sad anniversary. My grandmother--his wife--died in December 2011, when I was still a senior in high school. Those of you who have lost a relative know the pain; those of you who have lost a relative suddenly to terminal cancer know it even more acutely. My grandmother, a woman who never smoked in her entire life, died of lung cancer. The diagnosis came in November 2011. I was able to see her once before she died, during a week-long trip just after my fall semester of high school ended. My grandmother and I shared a birthday in early November, so I had just turned eighteen around the time of her diagnosis. When I visited her, she was like a poorly-drawn, grim caricature of the woman I knew as Grandma growing up, barely a shell of her former self. I don't remember much of what we talked about, since it was hard for her to say anything without entering a coughing fit. I remember that week being very quiet, just me, my mom, and my grandparents. Nobody really knew what to talk about, because everyone knew what was happening--why we were there. The somber atmosphere of my grandparents' house was palpable, like a heavy, wet cloth smothering me all day, and at night I would lie awake in a too-small twin bed formerly belonging to my aunt, or one of my uncles, trying to think and coming up with nothing but TV static in my head.

My last memories of my grandmother are not happy ones, filled with joy and hope despite sorrow. No, they are gritty and real and I can still feel the lump in my throat choking me as we said our final goodbyes. I remember sitting on the couch, just beside my grandmother who hunched in her tall-backed armchair, draped in a soft, baby blue bathrobe, clutching a handkerchief in her hand to help contend with the sputum that always accompanied her violent cough. It was maybe two or three days before Christmas Eve, and I was going back to my home in California the next day. We were watching something on TV--Wheel of Fortune, or Jeopardy!, or maybe a movie on one of the networks--and my grandmother turned to me. I looked over at her, waiting to hear what she had to say:

"I've always loved your eyes, Will." (I have blue eyes, while everyone else on my mom's side of the family has brown.) I smiled at her, and waited for her to keep going. She managed a small, sad smile. "You know, it's been so special to share a birthday with you. It was the greatest present I ever got on that day," she said, tearing up. "And, I'm sure you know, soon you'll have to carry that birthday for both of us."

I sort of half-choked on my own reply, and sputtered out something simple like, "Yeah, I know," before my grandmother couldn't breathe due to her coughing and crying and had to be helped by my mom. The night before my mom and I left for the airport, my grandmother hobbled out of her room one last time before going to sleep in order to say a final goodbye. I hugged her last, and she clutched me tightly. We were both crying, and she whispered, "I love you so much Will." I could hear the fear in her voice, the anxiety at the shared knowledge that we wouldn't see each other again. I hugged her as tightly as I felt comfortable doing to her frail body, and held her until she was wracked with yet another coughing attack. I told her I loved her as my grandfather and mom escorted her back to her room to help nurse her to sleep. I know she heard me, and I know she knew I meant it.

I returned to California late the next day. Three days later, my grandmother died. My mother flew back for the funeral, but it was too expensive for the rest of my family to go. I spent my Christmas break sitting around the house, trying to make sense of what happened, of the place of this event in the world. I was able to accept it; I didn't deny reality. But I didn't understand it, either. My grandmother--a woman with whom I had visits that I could remember probably no more times than I could count on my two hands but loved fiercely, dearly--was gone. I was old enough at this point to realize the blessing many of my friends took for granted: having aunts and uncles and grandparents who didn't live across a country, at opposite ends of a continent. Those who had the luxury of enough family visits to become tired of their relatives, bored with their interactions. I was also old enough to know that so much of my family history would remain a secret to me, a primary source of stories and memories and anecdotes stripped away. All that remained were the memories I had formed, that I had shared with her, and whatever physical leftovers--notes, letters, documents, photos--could piece together a jigsaw picture of my grandmother's life.

I count myself lucky that I got to say goodbye. I count myself lucky that I made sure to feel and show as much love as I was capable. I count myself lucky that I carry a piece of my grandmother with me, always, no matter where I go or what I do: my birthday--our birthday.

For a young and pretty damn liberal adult, I put a surprising amount of value in tradition and history, especially as it relates to family. I was devastated by my grandmother's loss, but I was even more devastated at the amount of history that just disappeared, like the last bit of flame before a candle is snuffed out. I want to know my roots, my family, my history. Over time, as the fresh wounds of my grandmother's death began to heal, I thought that despite our distance--both geographically and politically--I could get some of the answers I seek from my grandfather, provided I'd have the chance to visit with him soon.

I last saw my grandfather in 2011, when my grandmother was saying her goodbyes to the family. My grandfather died suddenly, alone, at the end of February 2016. I was waking up to go to a microbiology lab class I had that day, when I checked my text messages in the morning and saw several from my mom. Truthfully, that alone wasn't especially unusual, so I prepared breakfast and sat down to read the texts. I don't remember them verbatim, but they were unusually direct (for my mom)--my grandfather was dead, she was arranging a flight out to Pennsylvania to be there for his funeral. She's sorry to be sending this info to me now, but it was very sudden and she doesn't want me to find out later. I felt numb, and asked her how she was doing. She said okay, but sad. I understood. About a half hour later, I felt paralyzed. I wasn't on the verge of a breakdown, but I just couldn't focus on anything. I couldn't remember what classes I needed to pack my backpack for that day for nearly fifteen minutes. When I finally remembered, I sat at my computer and emailed my TA and professor that my grandfather had died, and I couldn't come to class. I didn't want to exaggerate or over-complicate my explanation, and fortunately my TA understood. He told me he was sorry, and to take a couple days to myself and not worry about my lab report's deadline. He told me to let him know if I needed anything else. I thanked him, then sat on my bed, staring at the my ceiling fan slowly swirling above me.

I had just lost the rest of my history on my mom's side of the family. Yes, my mom is an absolute fountain of stories and memories, and I've probably heard 99% of her life experiences at one point or another. But there's a certain wisdom, a certain quality, to stories and memories that grandparents give. It's a side-effect of sagacity gained through years on Earth, and partly due to the nature of my grandparent's generation. I had to come to terms with losing that sense of history, that sense of tradition and family roots that help me see the past. Now when I look back, through the lens of my family, the past slowly creeps closer to me.

The reason this is on my mind is because, for all the difficulty that having family at the other end of the country, I am reluctant to add family members on Facebook. It's not because I'm embarrassed of them or of what I post, but it's just a general rule I've kept to this point--I keep the same rule for family friends. I treat my Facebook mostly as a tool to connect with peers; if I want to get in touch with my relatives, I'd rather send a letter or call them on the phone.

As a consequence, I have a handful of unanswered friend requests sitting in my inbox (or whatever the hell it is on Facebook). Occasionally, if Facebook decides I've been particularly neglectful getting back to these people, it likes to remind me that there are people waiting for my decision. A few nights ago, Facebook decided it was time to remind me to "Check out these people you may know!"

One of them was my grandfather. A white, male silhouette against a light blue backdrop, the default male profile picture Facebook assigns. Just barely a week after the anniversary of my grandfather's death, a surreal, phantasmal reminder of his passing--and his presence. It was jarring, and a little upsetting, to see him just sitting there in limbo, waiting for me to answer him. It was almost, almost like he was reaching out, trying to say something to me. I never had the chance to say goodbye to my grandfather, and I wasn't there for his funeral for closure. For a second, I considered adding him as a friend just to see what his Facebook was like, just for the chance to send him a message saying "goodbye." But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I wonder where my grandmother and grandfather are. I wonder what they're doing, if anything. I don't really know them all that well, and I don't know if they did X amount of good or maybe committed--in some way, shape, or form--Y amount of bad. I don't know the story of their lives as seen from some omnipotent power, or even someone who has a clear picture of my family's history. All I know stems from the memories I have of them, of the birthdays in my childhood my grandparents flew out to spend with me, of the couple of trips back to the East Coast I spent happily romping around my grandparents' house with my cousins. I remember spending time with my grandparents at my uncle's wedding when I was in kindergarten, seeing how happy and proud they were that their youngest child was the last to finally be married.

All I know about my grandparents is that they were kind to me, to their family. All I know is that they loved me dearly, and I them. All I know is how fiercely proud of me they were, and I want to continue to make them proud. All I know is that my grandparents were good people.

And that's good enough for me.