haircut kiss

This picture sparks my love for my paternal grandparents. Grandmother Bonnie bends over and kisses Grandfather Blaine on his head. She would soon be diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and pass away quickly. A tragedy that still takes my breath away. Strangely perhaps, I miss them.

I will never see her again in this life. Or him. He's gone as well. A couple of weekends ago I was in a workshop receiving a lengthy massage. Our emotions were encouraged. My thoughts went to my partner, and then they slipped to my Abuelito (Grandfather) Luis, then Grandmother Bonnie, Abuelita Rosalba, and Grandfather Blaine. I saw them and I missed them terribly. That's all I'll say for that. Then at the end of the massage our whole bodies were wrapped in a light cloth. Like a body preparing for the tomb. And in my mind I went to the grave - with my ancestors. And many of my patients who I have grown to love - dearly - who have died. Another woman with pancreatic cancer. A middle-aged father with metastatic (spreading) tumors. A Mexican young man. My body descended into the dirt. And I grieved in a surprising way.

I will never see them again. Or will I? Part of me hopes that I will. So many people say they are so sure. And really - nobody knows for sure. The real answer is this: I don't know. But I sure hope so. And if I never do, I will go on missing them.

Before this picture Grandpa Blaine had had a heart attack and open-heart surgery. I watched Grandma lift the gallon of milk to pour it for him - too painful for him with the huge incision opening his ribs. He was honery and jabbed her frequently with his words. Cranky. And just as easily break down and cry expressing his love for her. One moment ordering her to get this or that for the breakfast table, the next moment praising her homemade bread and voice cracking in prayer at his mention of her name. Messed up I thought. Even then. But she never complained. She silently brought the cream, the bread, the hot mush, the egg. And kissed him. At our mention of these discrepancies, she would note that he was hurting after his heart surgery. And how she wanted to be there for him.

Some time later when he healed, and she became ill - terminally - he was devastated. He brought her food, and sat at her bedside, and cried. Mostly out of her presence if he could. She was progressively in alot of pain. And her desire to serve her partner was increasingly limited. The hospice nurses came in shifts. She shifted between wanting to manage the pain, and wanting to be present for Blaine. A couple of months later - near the end, Bonnie calmly told Blaine that she would like him to remarry when she passed. Hearing this was too much for him.

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I came from California and visited, with my mother one afternoon. Aunt Tony had photocopied many of their favorite songs piano music and given it to me. Grandma Bonnie suggested to me prostrate that I play some of these songs to lift Grandpa's spirits. She encouraged him to sing. She loved hearing him sing she said. He consented to one or two. Soon he'd been singing three or four. And at the end of a piece turn the page contentedly to the next one, tickled at the magic of memory lane. I'd done this with my father many times, it seemed so natural. He singing and I playing the piano. Grandpa sang the popular songs of their youthful marriage and courtship, mixed with sacred pieces.

One song caught him unexpected though. "When I am lonely, and you are gone... Sing me to sleep..." sang the text, in a surreal parallel to their current experience. He tried to get through the verses, but by the the second chorus, "When I am lonely,... you are so dear..." his voice cracked and brought him to his knees. Literally. My mother turned off the video camera she'd been holding - to respect this sacred grief. And he found himself a few feet away kneeling on the ground at the couch where she lay, his head buried in her bosom, shaking in great heaves. She cradled his head. They both present to eachother. Wordless. Torrents being communicated and experienced.

Grandma Bonnie quietly thanked me later when we parted. Saying that he needed to grieve. That it had finally hit him. She praised me, trying to hide her grimacing.

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When I look at this picture all of that and more flashes in an instant. An emotional swell. An early morning home haircut. A wordless kiss on the crown of the head. So common it could almost be taken for granted.

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This is the unedited, uncensored version. Some chafe at the mention of "negative" traits of ancestors. Like history books, some prefer to gloss over certain details and create pictures coloured rose or only warm hues. But our children need to see, in my view, all of our humanity, and see us struggle, figure things out, and live through imperfect situations. See how strong love can be. So it is no disrespect to note that my esteemed Grandfather was often cranky, that their Abuelito drank alot in his early years and almost lost his marriage, that their Abuelita ran away from home to the big city at age sixteen to make herself a nurse, that their uncle is gay and partnered with a wonderful accomplished man, that our blood has been through heart-breaking divorce, prison, mis-carriage, infertility, depression, or nearly any other thing that many would prefer not to talk about, and that binds us as common with all the human family.

I record this for family to "witness" a holy event that perhaps will give them a window into the greatness of the common people we descend from and are.