Get Malzed!

This week hasn’t been good to me or my family. It has been pretty hard on me even though I was expecting it to happen. My grandpa left this world for a better one beyond. I saw him last on Thanksgiving, when I flew to Washington DC and visited my grandparents in Virginia Beach. He was lucid, stuck in nursing home and attached to a feeding tube, but that did not deter him from spending few hours talking with us all. His slow decline was not a secret in my family nor with friends. I knew he will eventually leave us, but when it actually happened, nothing could prepare me for the moment of total devastation and finality.

I was at a construction site, about to start working after wasting a better part of the hour talking with co-workers and taking a long cigarette break, when I decided to check my pager for any emails before hauling some serious action upon the floors. I flipped open my not-so-trusty Sidekick and saw only one message from my dad. The subject read: Grandpa dies today.

That was enough, to see the subject line and not to read the message, but I had to. I read the message, sat down on the dusty floor, and clutched my sidekick as if it was my mom’s hand. That moment I felt so alone, anonymous and insignificant in the great wheel of life. Partly because I was new to the area and I met most of the locals for the first time in past two months. Partly because I did not have a family member around me. My stomach clenched and let go, then clenched again. My hands were still gripping my already battered pager and I realized I was sitting down. Then the tears came, at first an tentative drop welling out of my eye, seeking a path down my cheek, and more came. I could feel gasping and yet more squeezing and I realized it was me, sobbing and my innards were twisted. I stood up, balled my hands around the pager, stretched my arms towards the sky, and looked outside where it shone brightly among the mountains. It was a really splendid beautiful sunny day, a rare moment in Vancouver middle of January. I was on the sixth floor and could see the mountains surrounding the city, with sun gently glowing upon the gleaming glass and steel towers. I stood there by the window, letting the rays soak me and chase away the chills death brought with it. That moment, I thought it was indeed a good day for Grandpa to leave, to depart his old, worn out husk.

Last time I saw him, he was barely able to spell out coherently, crippled by arthritis, making him miserable. I could understand him, but not completely, and it was the greatest sorrow, for a deaf person to be trapped inside a body that refuses to cooperate. It used to be only the letter “e” that he couldn’t properly spell, and the rest was perfectly legible. Later on, it became more difficult for him to articulate other letters, leading to whole words and sentences. That last time I saw him was also the first time I saw him abed and in a hospital facility (nursing home is practically a hospital). It was hard, to watch him struggle and get frustrated about something he had no control over. Weeks later, my dad would report his progress and would mention that communication was not getting any better. His mental state, too. Lucid moments came and went. I learned something new, something called Sundowner’s Syndrome, where mostly older people would have clarity in the mornings and falling into dementia when the sun sets. It is not something I’d wish on anyone, to have a strange roller coaster alternating between understanding and incomprehension. Up and down and up and down.

Now, my grandpa is not stuck between states, he is someplase else watching us. Corny, I know, but it is true. He lives on in us, in his sons and his grandchildren and the in-laws, and most importantly, his wife. He is at peace and always sane, and that’s how I rather remember him as.

As I stood there by the windows, letting the sun warm my suddenly cold body, tears were running down my face and I couldn’t believe it. When the subject of death is mentioned, I have this genetic predisposition to smile, giggle, or laugh. It is never funny but I always have this nervous tic where my facial muscles contract and pull at my cheeks, widening my lips until you can see my teeth and it looks ugly. It is actually a grimace but a smile nonetheless, as I self-consciously try to stop my face from contorting rudely in the face of death. My mom has the same problem. My sister, too. That moment when I found out, I did not smile. My face was slack, in shock, and shiny with my tears. My sister followed my dad’s email, asking me whether I saw the news. That confirmed it for me, because I needed someone else to say it was true. One email cannot push my hand, but two or more definitely shoved me forwards. I contacted my mom, my brother, and my cousin simultaneously. All shared the same emotions: shock, disbelief, grief, and gladness that Grandpa went off to a better place.

Oddly enough, only a day before, I was shocked and saddened about my all-time favorite Hollywood actor’s death. Heath Ledger had a special place in my heart where I’ll follow his movies, news, and happenings since I was around sixteen years old. His death was too sudden and unrealistic.

After I received the news about my grandpa, Heath’s death became insignificant because I never knew the person. I only knew him through his roles and the screen time he put up. While, my grandpa was a real person, flesh and blood, and someone I looked up to while growing up. He was the one who taught us all to love reading, writing, and drama. I learned how sign language is one of the most valuable gift I could ever receive from him and my family. He was a trail blazer in the field of drama and literature. The written word was holy to him, any knowledge was worth having, and upcoming technology never fazed him. Instead, he had this cute and eccentric curiosity in how things worked and never shirked away from the progress. Internet, digital-dom, information, and such you can find at your fingertips was also accessible to him and he loved it. I was actually proud of him, for his unquenchable thirst for learning and evolving with time. I knew many of my friends’ grandparents felt threatened and overwhelmed by the changes in today’s technology. Not my grandpa.

My grandpa also saw plenty of events and history during his eighty-five years on earth. He made changes in the deaf community and for that, there are too many deaf people who would want to extend their hand in support for this tragedy. Not quite a tragedy, he lived his life to its fullest. The only thing that bothers me is the fame and publicity. I never proudly announced my last name when introducing myself. I’d say, “I’m Megan” and leave it at that. My grandpa was the Malz. I’m not the Malz, but a Malzkuhn. I will carry out the name and the legacy with it but I’m not him.

I appreciate the well-wishing and comfort people had given us. Yet, I do not want to remember him as the Malz. I want to remember him as my cranky lovable crotchety intelligent creative inspiring grandpa. He was and will be always Pop-pop to me. This week I have been remembering and honoring him by writing. I wrote poems, snippets, blogs, and all these were for him. A person might be dead but by remembering the person, he lives forever. To be immortal, one has to remember and be remembered by. I remember you, Pop-pop, and you’ll never be forgotten as long as I live.

Here’s a short poem I wrote within the hours after finding out he died.

“For you grandpa”

An old gentleman, quick to pull a face
Making me laugh or sit down with wonder
At his tall and not so tall tales
Inspiring me to use both languages I was born with
Fluently and surely as I think
Illustrating my voice through my hands
Because I grew up watching my grandpa do the same
My written words comes springing up flowing smoothly through my brain nerves, making connections, dotting the i’s and gives birth to my passion and ideas specifically and eternally
Signing is transisent, spur of moment, hardly preserved
With both, from the gifts my grandpa planted in me and my family, I can switch between present and infinity.

Dog lover, soda swiller, and trouble maker with a genuine love for intellectualism
Pop-pop was one of a kind
Irreplaceable
Solid mountain, deep lines of wisdom running down its face, alive through times, the evidence of the years gone past
Immortal
As long as one remembers, one never dies.

You’re in a better place, Pop-pop.

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 26th, 2008 at 6:01 pm and is filed under Megan. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.