Gathering with family over the course of the past week, I heard number of stories about my grandfather: some whimsical, some bittersweet, some ribald, some downright unbelievable. Their variety spoke to what a truly unique and diverse life my grandfather led. The most amazing story by far was related by my dad, and is as follows:
Just after returning home from his deployment, my grandfather and his twin brother took a trip to Michigan together. (My dad was hazy on the details of said excursion, but in his words: “I don’t think they were going to church camp.”) On the way home, with my great-uncle driving and my grandfather sleeping in the backseat, they were involved in a terrible car accident. Upon arrival to the hospital, my grandfather was declared dead, sheet pulled over his head, and his gurney rolled into the hallway to await transport to the morgue. A doctor walking by happened to see my grandfather’s foot move, at which point, per grandpa, “the doctor slit my throat” (grandpa speak for a tracheotomy), and removed a single watermelon seed from my grandfather’s trachea.
At this point in the story my brother and I looked at each other incredulously. I suppose I should mention that this accident happened prior to my grandparents marrying and having children, before they even met. We were both thinking: this is how close we came to not existing? Unbelievable.
To think that my existence in this world was decided on so narrow a margin is both mind boggling and eye opening. How can I ever take life for granted again when I came so close to not even being? How can I not live every day to its fullest, when any minute alteration in timing or circumstance could have stolen them before they began? And most importantly: how can I ever look at a watermelon the same way again???
When I think about my grandfather’s watermelon seed, I am amazed. When I think about the fact that he was born a healthy twin in 1936, I am incredulous. And when I think about the fact that his own mother was also born a healthy twin in 1916, I am awestruck. If I ponder too long the curious set of happenstance and circumstance that led to my life, I begin to feel that I have to right to exist at all.
Except for this one thing. Purpose. I truly believe, with every fiber of my being, that we all exist for a purpose. We were placed on this earth thoughtfully and intentionally, with a set of skills and circumstances uniquely our own to complete the task at hand. I also believe that the vast majority of us will never fully comprehend the purpose for which we were placed here, or understand the amplified magnitude of our seemingly inconsequential every day existence. It could be that my purpose is simply to be a physician. It could be that I was placed here because my children will do amazing things. It could be that I rescued a stray dog that would have otherwise injured or killed someone. Most likely it is an infinitely intricate tapestry of opportunities, decisions, and circumstances interwoven to create my Purpose.
If you find my grandfather’s story a little far-fetched, I don’t blame you. My grandfather was a consummate story teller, and he did enjoy the odd embellishment every now and then. Regardless of the details though, the significance for me remains the same. We all have those watermelon seeds in our lives: those near misses, those almost never was-es, those too close to call moments. The thing is, most of us never even realize it. The point is not to drive yourself crazy thinking about it though. The point is to realize that life is indeed an extraordinarily precious and rare gift, and that we as people should be much better about living every single day like the miracle it is.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
Beyond
“It’s very sad,” said my mom.
“Yes it is,” I replied. “But it happens to all of us, at some point.”
Replied mom, “Yes. I’m glad this isn’t the only world, that there is another after this life, that we go…” She paused.
“Beyond?” I offered.
“Yes, beyond.”
I suppose it’s a little inauspicious that my return to blogging (one of my goals for 2012 is to start writing more) picks up where my 2010 blog left off: with the death of a grandfather. My dad’s dad passed away peacefully with his oldest son, my uncle, at his side on Friday night. But I also suppose that there is no better way to honor his memory than to share what I remember of him, what I knew of him, and what I loved about him.
One of my earliest memories of grandpa is from Christmas, when I was 3 or 4 years old. The only thing I REALLY wanted that year was a Cabbage Patch doll (which was the toy to have that year and impossible to find). But of course, grandpa found one for me. He never did tell me how many people he had to wrestle for that doll. I still have Rory, packed away in a box somewhere. He reminds me of that Christmas, and how important my happiness was to my grandfather.
When I was in Kindergarten, grandpa came for “bring your grandparents to school” day. I remember thinking that was the coolest thing, to spend an entire day at school with my grandpa. I can now imagine that spending an entire day with 30 5-year olds was not the most tranquil day of my grandfather’s life, but he was there nonetheless. He sat in the circle, talked to my friends, and played with me at recess. One of my favorite pictures of the two of us is from that day. Outside on the playground, grandpa in a baseball cap and suspenders, me in a bright red sweater and a huge smile.
There are countless other memories, some overwhelming in their significance: Grandpa at our wedding, at my medical school graduation, Grandpa going to France for his 70th birthday, him meeting my daughter for the first time the day before he died; while some are small moments: the feeling of riding behind Grandpa on his motorcycle, Grandpa taking Brant and I and the dogs to Dairy Queen in the El Camino, the way he would always say “Hey, Meagan, what do you know?”
Not all memories are particularly happy either: Grandpa’s life-threatening motorcycle accident when I was very young, and the all-too frequent visits in Indianapolis with him when he was hospitalized at the VA over the past decade. These are all a part of life though, and when I think of Grandpa, it is easy to call to mind a host of happy memories to overcome the sad ones.
So now he is no longer with us, his physical pain and frailty have passed, and he is Beyond. Capturing a multitude of ideas and concepts in 6 letters, beyond has long been a favorite word of mine. It is a particularly germane description of death, being a word that means both “farther on than, more distant than” and “outside the understanding, limits, or reach of.” Grandpa is farther on from us now. His life now is outside our understanding. He is Beyond.
Given Grandpa’s lifelong love of travelling, it is very comforting for me to think of him this way. It is also comforting for me to consider who is waiting for him there, who preceded him beyond this world into the next: his mother, his father, his twin brother, his sister. Numerous other friends and family whose separation from this world was as difficult for him as his is for us. It is comforting for me, as I consider my own mortality, as I consider this great gift of life that we all only receive once. It is comforting for me to know that, when my own time comes to pass beyond this world into the next, those who have gone before will be waiting for me.
We gather as his friends and family to mourn his death and celebrate his life. Though not always perfect, I would judge his life to have been a good one, full of love, friendship, happiness, and the constant companionship of his faithful dogs. He will be missed, but I will remain perpetually grateful for his presence in my life.
“Yes it is,” I replied. “But it happens to all of us, at some point.”
Replied mom, “Yes. I’m glad this isn’t the only world, that there is another after this life, that we go…” She paused.
“Beyond?” I offered.
“Yes, beyond.”
I suppose it’s a little inauspicious that my return to blogging (one of my goals for 2012 is to start writing more) picks up where my 2010 blog left off: with the death of a grandfather. My dad’s dad passed away peacefully with his oldest son, my uncle, at his side on Friday night. But I also suppose that there is no better way to honor his memory than to share what I remember of him, what I knew of him, and what I loved about him.
One of my earliest memories of grandpa is from Christmas, when I was 3 or 4 years old. The only thing I REALLY wanted that year was a Cabbage Patch doll (which was the toy to have that year and impossible to find). But of course, grandpa found one for me. He never did tell me how many people he had to wrestle for that doll. I still have Rory, packed away in a box somewhere. He reminds me of that Christmas, and how important my happiness was to my grandfather.
When I was in Kindergarten, grandpa came for “bring your grandparents to school” day. I remember thinking that was the coolest thing, to spend an entire day at school with my grandpa. I can now imagine that spending an entire day with 30 5-year olds was not the most tranquil day of my grandfather’s life, but he was there nonetheless. He sat in the circle, talked to my friends, and played with me at recess. One of my favorite pictures of the two of us is from that day. Outside on the playground, grandpa in a baseball cap and suspenders, me in a bright red sweater and a huge smile.
There are countless other memories, some overwhelming in their significance: Grandpa at our wedding, at my medical school graduation, Grandpa going to France for his 70th birthday, him meeting my daughter for the first time the day before he died; while some are small moments: the feeling of riding behind Grandpa on his motorcycle, Grandpa taking Brant and I and the dogs to Dairy Queen in the El Camino, the way he would always say “Hey, Meagan, what do you know?”
Not all memories are particularly happy either: Grandpa’s life-threatening motorcycle accident when I was very young, and the all-too frequent visits in Indianapolis with him when he was hospitalized at the VA over the past decade. These are all a part of life though, and when I think of Grandpa, it is easy to call to mind a host of happy memories to overcome the sad ones.
So now he is no longer with us, his physical pain and frailty have passed, and he is Beyond. Capturing a multitude of ideas and concepts in 6 letters, beyond has long been a favorite word of mine. It is a particularly germane description of death, being a word that means both “farther on than, more distant than” and “outside the understanding, limits, or reach of.” Grandpa is farther on from us now. His life now is outside our understanding. He is Beyond.
Given Grandpa’s lifelong love of travelling, it is very comforting for me to think of him this way. It is also comforting for me to consider who is waiting for him there, who preceded him beyond this world into the next: his mother, his father, his twin brother, his sister. Numerous other friends and family whose separation from this world was as difficult for him as his is for us. It is comforting for me, as I consider my own mortality, as I consider this great gift of life that we all only receive once. It is comforting for me to know that, when my own time comes to pass beyond this world into the next, those who have gone before will be waiting for me.
We gather as his friends and family to mourn his death and celebrate his life. Though not always perfect, I would judge his life to have been a good one, full of love, friendship, happiness, and the constant companionship of his faithful dogs. He will be missed, but I will remain perpetually grateful for his presence in my life.
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