Meredith’s Musings | Grandpa Great

article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

On April 21st, the world lost Pope Francis; the same day, Husband lost his paternal grandfather, Larry David Smith, his last living grandparent. Husband’s mother had called days prior to let us know that Grandpa would be put on hospice, that the nurses expected he had 72 hours. I watched Husband physically crumble during the initial call, stumble back on both of feet and collapse into our oversized armchair in the bedroom. He buried his forehead in his hands, tears escaping through his fingers. I watched as his back arched aggressively, up and down, with each sob. The physical display surprised me, not for its magnitude, but rather Husband’s expression of disbelief, almost as if Grandpa was too great for such a common fate.

We all know we’ll bury our grandparents. Not to minimize the loss, but it’s the one death we’re trained to expect – parents are sometimes harder, children unfathomable. I buried my grandparents in spurts, two during high school, and the other two about a decade ago. Honestly, I’d forgotten how it felt, especially if the departed was a childhood hero as Husband has described Grandpa Great to me. Husband spent the rest of that Monday in a daze, silent on our family walk, ignoring the birds he typically idolizes. It was as if nature stopped speaking to him, or he lost the will to listen. The girls sensed his need for solitude, only wandering into a hug randomly without words. Sometimes there’s nothing to say; even little kids sense the senselessness of words in times of loss.

I ferried the girls outside, intent on giving Husband his space. It was difficult to describe the loss of someone they’d only met once. They can’t imagine someone so important to their father not being a part of our everyday life, but growing up 700 miles from family often means accepting such sacrifices. I remember Grandpa Great holding Wilder as a newborn, cradling her little head in the crook of his arm. He met her on the same day he met me for the first time. I don’t remember the contents of our conversation, but I do remember his presence, almost stoic in nature, studying his surroundings, soaking up the tidbits of conversations in the hotel room.

Husband flew to Kansas for the funeral 8 days later, the girls and I staying behind. We figured Husband needed this time with his extended family and less distractions. Throughout the weekend, he sent us updates and pictures, displaying smiles at seeing everyone despite the circumstances. He seemed happy around his family and intent on letting me know he was okay. The day before the funeral he took a jog around the hotel, uncoaxed by me. Sitting with his feelings in the same city where he made memories with Grandpa felt too heavy. He didn’t say so, but he didn’t have to.

He sent me a link to the memorial video. For 35 minutes, I watched Husband’s childhood hero at various stages of his long life, fishing on lake Taneycomo, laughing with Husband’s grandmother, always surrounded by kids, grandkids, and great grandkids. The families that evolved from that one coupling decades ago is astounding to see at scale. I watched the video a second time with my father, who teared up every time a black and white photo drifted on screen. My dad cried not for a man he’d never met, but for the son and grandson he did. I didn’t have to know Grandpa Great to know he lived up to his name. I see it every day in the people he left behind.