We have been putting the finishing touches on a school year that began last April. Math and Latin, with lots of free reading, have been our focus. We have also been lending a hand tending to the kids' beloved Poppa.
Poppa is my dad. But, more than that, he is Poppa. When he was simply my dad, he worked. I saw him on Sundays and late Saturday afternoons. He took us to the beach on summer Sunday mornings - if we could get up early enough to beat the toll. Mostly, I remember him stretched out in his recliner on Sunday afternoons, sleeping until dinner.
I think my dad really became a father-figure after he retired and settled into being a grandfather. There is a picture somewhere around here in which he and my eldest son are sitting on the deck, backs to the camera, the sun setting in the summer sky, just a little boy, his grandfather, a golden retriever at their feet. The picture captures what is best about my dad - the ease with which he spent time with the grandchildren, the lack of needing to do something, the ability to just be with them - and let them be with him.
Even now, as I sit by his bedside, I feel the need to do something, anything - to be productive as his body continues to fail him, assaulted on so many fronts he can not possibly survive. My dad was always larger than life to me - his hands literally capable of bending metal, with huge sausage-like fingers, the hands of an iron-worker, impeccably clean and manicured, almost impossibly so in light of his vocation. It is hard to believe he is the same man whose shoulder blades now protrude beneath his shirt. It is hard to believe - and yet it is so.
My kids are taking their impending loss pretty well. They ask about Poppa every morning, and want to visit as often as possible. With each car ride home, however, my oldest daughter sits in the seat next to me and says, "Poppa looked good today, huh, Mom?" And I reply, "Yes, honey. He did." "He ate well, too, didn't he, Mom?"
It is then that I take her hand, grateful that she doesn't flinch the way most teens react to their Moms touching them, attempting to comfort where there is no comfort to be had, conveying to her that I understand, that I am here, that I know what she wants from me, but I do not have it to offer. She is crying then, I can see her reflection in the window. I continue to hold her hand as she silently weeps.
There are no books to teach our children about this kind of loss - the loss that hurts deep in the soul, the loss that makes us question our faith, the loss we will remember for the rest of our lives. They want their Poppa to get out of that bed and take them to the playground, sit outside and watch them ride their bicycles, make them cookies ... Their list of "Remember when Poppa used to ..." is quite extensive. They have such wonderful memories. And they share them so freely - with me as well as with each other. We are blessed to have the freedom to spend time with him, to sit by his bedside, to have each other as a source of comfort and understanding. There is no box to check on our daily schedule for these lessons. And yet, there is a sense that all our schooling - all our time spent together with our heads buried in books, all the field trips, all the read-alouds we have enjoyed, even all the times we have traipsed around the room singing geography songs at the top of our lungs - somehow it is all of that that has culminated in our being able to weather this storm as a family, to show strength at a time when we want to crumble - and to go on with responsibilities when our hearts desire a rest.
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