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| In memory of Deane Callen September 16th, 1933 - April 26th, 2020 |
I've tried to start this post several times, now. But I just didn't have it in me. Please excuse the disjointedness of it. It's the best I can muster.
I didn't anticipate to lose both of my grandparents in the same year. I hear it's common for couples, but it completely blindsided me. It all happened so fast. He was fine, and then he was not. He was diagnosed with late-stage cancer on a Sunday and was gone by the following Sunday. Thankfully, my family could be there, but it was agony watching him slowly fade away. I have never watched someone die before. I never want to ever again. He slept a lot, in his bed that Hospice set up for him in his living room. When he did wake up, he would just smile at us and wiggle his pinky in a little wave as he always did. Sometimes he would be lucid and sometimes he would say random things. I didn't see fear in his eyes, only the light of a man that was preparing for Heaven. I pray he's there, with her. I was told he "accepted Christ" and that's what I hope for. I'm sorry this post is more raw and random than my one for Grams. This one hit me harder, in some ways. They're gone. They're both gone. That major chapter of my life is over. And I'm having a hard time with it.
I was his shadow, growing up. I followed him everywhere. As soon as I came to live with my grandparents full time, I was everywhere he was: in the garage, in the barn, in his truck, in the wheelbarrow he was pushing, on the hay he was throwing. Everywhere. My favorite place was on his lap, where he would read the "funnies" to me. My favorites were the Sunday funnies -- those were in color. He would tickle me when he got to the punchline, causing me to laugh at a joke that went right over my head. I was his flashlight holder in the garage and eager co-pilot in the passenger seat of his "big red truck". Whenever he went to pick up feed from Spokane or deliver hay to someone in Rathdrum, I was there. "To the dump, to the dump, to the dump we go!" he would sing out loud on Saturdays, letting me know it was time to get my shoes on and accompany him to the local transfer station. I would lose my mind and come running, like it was the best thing ever. And it was, because he would tell me funny stories and teach me about driving. "Look out for the 'big M's', Jennie," he would say. "Big M's" stood for "morons", or people who wanted to "reach out and smack ya" with their car. He attempted to teach me how to drive stick when I was old enough and laughed at me every time I stalled it -- which was often. We went on endless vacations together, just me and my grandparents in their RV, every spring and summer break, it seemed. They always packed hot cocoa and Twizzlers for the trip. We had our own version of the slug bug game, only less violent, where we would loudly announce whenever a red barn came into view. I used to get up extra early with him, as he was getting ready for work, just so I could have breakfast with him. Poached eggs with toast and, if I was lucky, some Cream of Wheat to go with it. His face was always clean shaven, he smelled of Brut aftershave, his hands were rough from always working, flannel button up shirts made up his wardrobe, and he always had Double Mint Gum in his lunch box to share with me. He was a simple man and what he lacked in refinement, he was rich in humor and work ethic. He cracked jokes up until the day he lost his ability to speak and his last words to me were, "I want to give you a hug." He never emoted or showed affection much, but I know at that moment, he meant it. I was happy to oblige and I'm thankful I did.
As I got older, it was apparent that we shared the same hot-tempered, bull-headed disposition, and during my teenage years, we drifted apart. I didn't know who I was and I lacked support in the things I was going through. He was the only father figure I had for the first nine years of my life and I tested that boundary and was left wanting. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't any of theirs. They took on a task they didn't have to -- shouldn't of had to. But I see now that they did everything they could to give me a good chance at life -- better than my mother ever could, for certain. I remember the day I brought Matt home to meet them and told them that he had proposed, Gramps genuinely and heartily shook Matt's hand to congratulate him. I remember the day I told him I was going to name our first son after him, I could see tears welling up in his eyes. I remember seeing him hold Rob for the first time, looking so proud to be a great-grandfather. Drew was fascinated by him as a baby and he loved to pull up on his legs and stare, as Gramps would whisper unknown things to him when he thought no one was watching. They shared a special bond. He loved both of our boys so much and they gave him such joy every time we brought them over to visit. Even when his mind was slipping in the end, he always remembered the boys' names and would kiss them on the heads each night. As hard and as heartbreaking as it was for Rob and Drew, I'm thankful that they had those final days with him.
We butted heads when Matt and I got saved. Over zealous and ready to convert the world, we wounded many relationships in vain -- my grandparents were definitely two of them. We have spent the past handful of years trying our best to make up for that, instead trying to show them Jesus through love and service. Matt helped out by mowing their lawn, doing their Costco shopping, and doing various odd jobs around the farm. We were the first ones there when Grams passed away. Matt was the first one there when Gramps was taken to the hospital before the end. We were the closest family here, but we also wanted to love on them when they needed someone the most. We are poor examples of Christ, but we did our best to share Him with them how we were able and we attempted to repair what we had damaged. Before the end, he told Matt that he appreciated him, told us that he was proud of us as parents, and told me that he loved me. What I wouldn't give to hear that just one more time.
So, they're both gone, now. Three months in between. There was no funeral, because of this damned virus. Just a very small graveside service with our pastor at Grams' grave. He's been cremated and most of his ashes will be buried next to hers. Part of him sits on my side table beside her. I'm unable to look at them without crying just yet. My whole world feels upside down. Soon, the farm will be gone, along with the beautiful home Grams helped design -- the one they both wanted to retire and die in. I'm glad they got their wish. But no more big family holidays and visits to Grandma and Grandpa's. No more cookies and stories. No more buggy rides and yard games. No more laughter and too much food. No more Grandpa's jokes and Grandma's cackle. No more of what used to be. And I'm heartbroken and unsure of the future that lies ahead, with so much turmoil and uncertainty in the world today. I'm thankful that the virus didn't take them and I'm thankful I don't have to worry about them anymore. But my heart is so wounded and it's all so unknown. I've never been here before and it scares me. They were a constant, just like food and freedom were constant. But I know God is constant, so I'm doing my best to cling to Him right now -- no matter what. And I'm holding desperately on to the hope that when He calls me home, they will both be there to greet me.
