Resipiscence

Today, my grandmother and I went down to the art museum. Had scads of fun looking through the Jacob Lawrence exhibit that's up there now... I think we spent at least two, maybe two and a half hours on that one floor. Also had fun in the modernism room trying to squint and tilt-head the pictures into making some kind of sense (but then again, that's not exactly the point of modernism, is it? Ah, I love modernism). Got a t-shirt in the museum shop. I have a tradition, now, of getting a t-shirt from every art museum I visit, and this brings my grand total up to three. Also got a pin for Sorcha. She does not know this yet, even though I am IMing her at this very moment. Got home, and were immediately trapped by a psychotic thunderstorm which overflowed the creek in the backyard and flooded almost up to the house. I kept expecting to see fish leaping out of the lawn, it was under so much water. After it was done, we had to go out back and get the debris out from under the fence that goes across the creek, as it was blocking the water. This involved me taking off my shoes and socks (one of which the dog immediately made off with), getting down into the creek, and tugging on a submerged tree branch. (Actually, that was fun. I love getting wet and muddy and dirty. I suppose this is preparation for a career in the messier arts like ceramics.)

Ironically enough, Monday was dry enough so that the comment was made, more than once, "Gee, I wish it would rain, our garden needs it." The garden, by the way, got just about washed away. Crazy, man, crazy.

While we were walking through the third floor, Grandma got a call from... someone, I forget who. My aunt's dad, who had just had knee-replacement surgery, had gotten up to go to the bathroom and collapsed. They couldn't revive him.

Now, if I've ever met the man, I don't know. But he was the granddad of my other cousins. Which I guess... would make him... my... grandfather-in-law? Something like that, I suppose. But I didn't know him at all. Which is why I am really dreading the funeral later this week. It doesn't seem... appropriate, that I try to mourn for someone I never knew (and I suck at acting, at any rate). And I hate the stupid pleasantries that everyone mouths at funerals; "I'm sorry for your loss," "He's with the Lord now," etc. etc. etc., all of which may or may not be strictly true but, to me at least, are somewhat insincere for their formulaic nature. I've always had the feeling that if you were really that sad, you'd be able to think of some other way to say it. But I can't think of anything else to say, even if I do want to express to someone that I do feel for their loss, and I always wish I could comfort them in some way that didn't involve words.

The last funeral I was at was Granddad's, my own grandfather. This was a lot different, since it was, that time, technically my loss. My situation there was different, though, since he'd been in a nursing home for the past five years, steadily deteriorating from Alzheimer's. When he forgot who I was, about four years ago, I started refusing to see him. I didn't want to remember him like that, I wanted to keep my memories of my Granddad. And although my grandmother didn't really understand it, my mom did, and she never forced the issue. So really, for me at least, he had "died" four years earlier and this was just... observing the formalities, I guess. I tried to get my parents to let me stay home from the funeral; I didn't even want to go, partly for fear I'd be forced to look in the casket, which for the same reasons I never visited him I didn't want to do. But I went, it was closed-casket, and I spent the barest amount of time politely allowable talking to relatives I barely knew in low voices before finding my like-minded cousin Agnes and absconding to the bathrooms with my Notebook.

And I'm aware that to some-- most, even-- this seems incredibly disrespectful, irreverent, etc. etc., but quite honestly, funerals were never very conducive to mourning for me. Right when I'd most like to be left alone and think it out, on my own time, in my own space, I'm shoved into sober Sunday best and forced to socialize with near-strangers who haven't seen me since I was two and want to know "how school is going" when all other conversational topics are met with a blank stare and mumbled response from the well-known antisocialite of the family. I couldn't cry in front of these people, even if I wanted to. Large groups of people just make me retreat into my shell. During the eulogy, when the guy up front was talking about how wonderful Granddad was, and my mom and aunt and uncle and cousins were crying and such, I was staring blank-faced off into space thinking "when does this end? I'm hungry." I cried later.

This is, sadly, probably going to be an issue in the future. My mom warned me, before I left, that my dad's father is slowly but surely developing Alzheimer's.

Wonderful. Seeing one granddad slip out of touch with reality was more than what I had wanted to see, but now it's likely I'll get to go 'round the coaster with the other side of the family. I keep watching Grandpa while I'm here, and while it's clear he can still tell who his nearest and dearest are, and can still laugh at my off-kilter jokes and such, there will be small moments of forgetfulness that would go unremarked in anyone else, but that here seem to leap out at me and scream "See! Look! It's happening again, and this time you know EXACTLY what's going on."

Maybe... this is what God's trying to prepare me for.

Labels: art, family