Your grandpa was awesome! Week #1
Dear Luki,
You totally slept through it, but a few nights ago we rang in the new year. You need to work on your nightlife endurance, dude. I don’t want you cramping my style because you’re “too tired” by 11 p.m. when I take you bar hopping for your first birthday.
The truth is you didn’t miss much. New Year’s Eve was very low key. We just watched T.V. and ate the traditional twelve grapes at midnight. Oh yea, and we also cried because we missed your grandpa so much.
But it’s a new year. And I have resolved to not be so sad. Instead, I’m going to celebrate his life and all that he gave me. You grandpa was always happy, and if he knew how devastated we all are he would totally say something like, “this too shall pass” or “more was lost in the war” about his own death.
Right after he died, through the disconcerting and overwhelming sadness, I knew that I would be O.K. You know why? Because I’m his daughter. Losing him is the biggest problem I’ve ever had to face, but he prepared me for it. Nothing was ever too daunting or complicated for your grandpa, and I learned from his example.
Luki, I want you to understand that I am incredibly blessed to have had a dad like I did. And the thing that upsets me the most about him dying is that you will not get to reap the benefits of being in his company. That’s why I’m writing you this letter, and that’s why I’m going to write you a letter about your grandpa every week for a year. Because I don’t want you to just know him in pictures and casual anecdotes, I want you to be intimately familiar with him. It will make you a better man.
Your grandpa was funny and kind, and he made the best tostones in the world. But above all, he loved. He loved others fully, wholeheartedly, more than himself. And that love, not the love he received, but the love he gave, filled him with joy. I hope I can convey that love in my weekly letters.
Love like your grandpa did Luki, it’s the best advice I could ever give.
Mom
Resolved
A fresh start. A clean slate. A new beginning. That’s what each January is supposed to be about, right? Well, coincidentally, I’ve been feeling like an updated version of myself lately. 2009 was a transformative year. At first it was awesome, and then it kicked my ass so hard it knocked me unconscious. Now, in 2010, I am waking up from that coma with a completely new outlook. Things are so much more in focus.
Last year, my dad died in an accident, or at least that’s what the death certificate says. But how can something so important as life and death be accidental? I have accidents all the time. An accident is when I spill tea on my shirt, or ignore my bladder for so long, a trickle comes out right before I can unzip my jeans.
I’m sorry, but ceasing to exist is not on the same level as peeing my pants.
It doesn’t make sense to live a bunch of years and love a bunch of people, just to randomly fall off a ladder one day and stop. No. My dad’s death, just like his life, has to have a purpose. A purpose for those he left behind.
That’s my resolution for this year. To figure out what the purpose of his death is in my life. And I can tell you one thing, even though I miss him terribly, he didn’t die for me to sit around and be sad all the time. That would be a complete waste.
He also didn’t die to be forgotten. My dad led a great life and my brother and I are immeasurably lucky to have had his example all these years. Sadly, Luki will not be as fortunate. So, as part of my New Year’s resolution, I’m going to write my son a weekly letter about his grandpa: things I remember, lessons he taught me, funny anecdotes, etc. It’s the least I can do, and it would be a great disservice to Luki if I didn’t try to share with him all that my father gave to me. I plan to publish them every Wednesday for 52 weeks. Be on the lookout for the first one tomorrow!
So, that’s the plan. That’s how I begin my quest to make sense out of this tragedy. Last year I started writing in this blog. I had a baby. My dad died. Those things didn’t all happen arbitrarily. They are the variables to an equation I hope to solve in 2010.
It's our monthiversary! Part VI
Half a year baby! Luki is turning into an old man. Look! He’s even grown a mustache:
It’s been a rough month for all of us around here, including Luki. We’ve been trying to come to terms with my dad’s death and that’s thrown his routine a little bit of of whack. Sometimes he sleeps at home, sometimes at grandma’s. Sometimes he gets a bath, sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he eats solids, other times it’s just boob. Add to that the holidays, the barrage of people coming in and out to give their condolences, and his very first cold, and you’ve got yourself the recipe for a very confused and cranky baby.
But Luki is no quitter. So, despite the hectic schedule, he’s managed to teach himself a couple of new tricks. He can now sit unsupported! Except when I try to show off to someone that he can sit unsupported. Then, he always manages to topple over, hit his head, and make me look like a terrible mother who puts her kid in danger for the sake of making a good impression. Must be payback for telling the Internet about his penis.
And for his second antic, he gets on all fours and scoots his body back and forth, as if revving up his engines to zoom into month seven. I hope when he gets there, he finds a little more order, tranquility, and better spirits.
Charles Dickens was clairvoyant (or a quick reflection on 2009)
I didn’t read the whole thing, and according to Wikipedia it’s about Paris and London and the plight of the peasantry or something — but the first line of A Tale of Two Cities describes my 2009 to a T.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”
In July, I had a baby. He came with the sun on a Thursday morning and changed my life forever. It was the best of times.
In November, my father died. It was sudden and unexpected and, again, everything changed. It was the worst of times.
It’s been a year of absolutes. Of black and white and hot and cold. And I, who had been living life in shades of gray and treading lukewarm water, will never be the same again.
In which Luki carries on a family tradition
I come from a really healthy, long-lasting family. My great-aunt died a couple of months ago at the ripe old age of 102. My grandma is in her late eighties and still has the hand-eye coordination to put on a full face of make-up every morning. My dad only lived to 53, but that was a stupid accident; he was in better shape than most 35 year olds. And my mom — she eats sugar in the raw by the cupful and gets an A+ on her blood work every time she goes to the doctor.
I say all this to say: I have some quality, Grade A genes.
And then I married a diabetic.
What can I say? Some women marry into money or property, or a family business; I married into chronic (albeit controlled) illness.
Still, as healthy as my side of the family may be, we still get the sporadic cold or flu. And it is a long standing, time honored tradition for the Jardines clan to get sick only during the most special of occasions.
When I was a kid, I would always break into a fever half an hour before heading out to a birthday party. It’s like I literally made myself ill with excitement. My parents were the same way — their defenses always shutting down hours before a big vacation or the giant dinner parties they were known for hosting.
Getting sick on a random Tuesday and watching talk shows all day? Absolutely out of the question.
So I wasn’t even a little bit surprised when Luki got his first cold on Christmas Eve. “He’s just really excited about baby Jesus’ birthday,” I thought.
Poor Luki, he was miserable throughout the entire holiday, coughing uncontrollably and then getting really mad at the phlegm that was lodged in the back of his throat. He kept making this really angry face that was all — I’M JUST TRYING TO CHILL AND SUCK ON MY TOES, WHAT IS THIS AWFUL THING THAT KEEPS HAPPENING TO ME?? — every time his lungs tried to make their way up his trachea.
When I offered him some boob and he turned his face away, I knew something was REALLY wrong. Because boob and crack are synonymous to my kid, and we haven’t been able to afford to send him to rehab.
I took him to the doctor, and she explained that he wasn’t eating because his nose was full of mucus, making it impossible for him to suck and breathe at the same time. It was my job to vacuum his nostrils with an aspirator three times a day.
Disgusting yet endearing side note: My mom says that in Cuba they didn’t have aspirators, so my dad would suck the buggers out of my nose with his mouth. Gross! But also, wow, he loved me enough to eat my snot!
All it took was one look at the device I was going to insert in his little nose, and Luki started to scream and flail his limbs like a crazy person. However, after being restrained by his dad and grandma, I was able to clear out his nasal passageway making it possible for him to breathe again. He is feeling much better now, thanks for asking.
So, what did I learn from this experience?
1. To thank my lucky stars I now live in a country where aspirators are a dime a dozen.
And
2. To never underestimate the ability to blow my own nose.
Christmas didn't suck as much as I thought it would
So it wasn’t all spiked eggnog and chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and I missed my dad so much even my fingernails ached. But I survived. And at times, I even laughed and felt happy.
My mom says she gives herself a pep talk in order to complete the gargantuan task of getting out of bed every morning. She tells herself, “God took away my husband, but he did not take all that I have. He has put many more amazing people in my life.”
That lady, she is so wise.
Because as much as I tried to be miserable and spend The First Christmas Without Daddy in the fetal position with my head between my knees, all the incredible people around me wouldn’t let it go down that way.
Case in Point: My kick-ass husband Ton Ton who, despite my telling him many times that I had no Christmas spirit and did not want to give or receive any presents, bestowed me with a much needed brand new laptop computer on Christmas Eve. It made me happy. Happy because it’s green and pretty and just the size I wanted, but mostly because he gave it to me. He gave it to me knowing full well I’d bought him a big fat case of nothing in return.
And that’s how it was with everyone else. Family and friends putting on their best faces and making the most selfless of efforts in order for the holiday to be tolerable. Mom got out of bed and cooked a delicious meal so that we didn’t have to resort to frozen pizza. My brother ran every errand, washed every dish, and smiled the whole time (just like dad would’ve done). A good friend brought cake and gossiped until past midnight.
On Christmas day, we went to Ton Ton’s sister’s house for lunch and she presented Luki with a stocking, his name written in glitter. Before I could remove any of its contents, my son, who has the aim of a professional baller, managed to projectile vomit inside it.
I thought to myself, “well, at least we now know how he feels about glitter” and right then, on my first Christmas day without a father, I laughed and laughed.
Christmas time
Time has been acting funny since the tragic and life-altering event of November 28. My mom keeps saying that she wants the clock to tick faster. That she feels the hours and minutes leisurely strolling by, like tourists who don’t want to miss a single site of nostalgia and sorrow. For me, on the other hand, the past three and a half weeks have flown by. I am still stranded in that hospital room. Every detail of that day remains engraved in my being — the rhythmic noise of the ventilator; the way my dad didn’t smell like himself; the look of disbelief on my mother’s face when the doctors told us he was gone. It is as if it all happened five minutes ago.
I recently realized that Christmas is in three days, and that doesn’t compute in my mind. I just had Thanksgiving dinner with my family. My dad was there. He praised my turkey. The next day he had an accident and was hospitalized. I’m stuck there. How did all these other days sneak in? When did it become December?
Christmas, as it’s traditionally celebrated here, has never been a big deal for my family. Before we moved to the United States we didn’t really know anything about Santa Claus or crowded malls. In Cuba, all we did was get together for a big meal on December 24 to observe Noche Buena. When we arrived to this country right smack in the middle of Holiday Season 1992, we thought people were crazy and tacky for having giant trees with flashing lights inside their houses.
My brother was still pretty young when we got here, so he bought into the whole Santa thing despite the fact that the fat man in the red suit had never visited him in Havana. So, for the first few years we put up a tree and opened presents Christmas morning. But when we got a little older, we stopped doing all that. The celebration was limited to a big feast on the 24th.
This year, Ton Ton and I wanted to play up the holiday for Luki. We planned to get a tree and put up lights, and envisioned dozens of presents to commemorate our baby’s first Christmas.
And then the terrible thing happened. The terrible thing which has put all other things into perfect focus.
My father’s sudden and unexpected death has made me realize that the most amazing gift I have is time. The time I spent with him, and the time I have left to spend with others.
When we asked my mom what she’d like to do for Noche Buena, she said she wanted to spend it in bed. So this December 24th, my brother, Ton Ton, Luki and I will be climbing in there with her. Wrapping up the present. Opening up the memories time has kindly left behind.
