I still remember my grandfather’s favorite rocking chair, one of a pair that he and Grandma used to utilize almost daily. On the hottest summer afternoons, they would take the red-oak rockers out to the front porch, to enjoy the breeze that flowed through the high ceilings of the turn-of-the-century house. As the blue of day gave birth to a fiery afternoon, they would gently rock and talk about their days, discuss current events and enjoy watching me as I played with my toys by their feet. Once I got big enough to ride a tricycle, they would sit out there and watch me go back and forth on the sidewalk, to make sure I wouldn’t pedal too far away.
My grandparents got married young, and even
though they didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, they loved
each other with that love that has no surrender. Their biggest challenge came
when they took their son to the hospital with a relentless cough that had
lasted for days. The doctor on call ordered one of the nurses to put the
one-year-old in an incubator to try to stabilize his breathing, but an
unnoticed defect in the machine resulted in the child getting less oxygen, and
a few hours later my grandparents were stricken with the grief of losing their
baby boy.
Grandma had to receive some psychiatric
attention after that and was put on a medication regimen to keep her stable. Grandpa
didn’t; his regimen became hard liquor, lots of it, every day after work. He
would never miss a session, he couldn’t. A couple of decades later their
first-born daughter was getting married and promptly after giving birth to
another baby, a boy that, especially to Grandpa, deeply reminded them of the
one they had lost all those years before. Suddenly they had a second chance at
experiencing what they had been denied before, but along with the gift also
came an overwhelming fear, one that made Grandpa start drinking more than what
he already was.
I always remember him as a happy person. As
a matter of fact, if there is one thing that I remember well about him is his
smile, and the way his eyes squinted when he grinned. Every day after punching
out at work, he would walk to the convenience store across the street and pick
up a knick-knack, something that wouldn’t allow him to get home empty handed. I
waited eagerly by the door, anxious to see what he would bring me that day. He
always delivered; he never failed me once.
Until one day.
I still remember asking Mom why Grandpa was
taking so long; I had been waiting by the door for a while now. Even though I
was only four-and-a-half years old, I very clearly remember that she sat me on
her lap, and with a somber tone she told me that Grandpa was not coming home
that night. When I asked the reason why, she simply said that he had an
impromptu work trip he had to go on, and they didn’t know exactly when he would
be coming back. That was it, that’s where she left it at.
Day after day I stood by the door on the
early afternoons, eagerly hoping to see Grandpa cross the street with a brown
bag in his hand and his signature smile in his face, rushing to walk in and
embrace me, but he never did. For years I was still convinced that he would be
coming home, until I wasn’t so sure anymore.
My parents, knowing how close he and I
were, thought it was better to shield me from the sad reality that my
grandfather had passed away from a massive heart attack while sleeping. He was
only forty-eight. They thought that if they gave me enough time, I, being so
young, would probably forget most of the things I had gone through before I was
five years old. But I never did, not Grandpa, I never forgot him.
After years of unfounded expectations, I
finally demanded the truth from my parents, but not before developing serious
symptoms of anxiety and convincing myself that not only Grandpa had abandoned
us, but that it was somehow my fault that he had. I was nine years old when I
learned the truth, and coincidentally the same age when I experienced my first
serious depressive episode. After that things got shaky, and as the years went
by the depression led me to an addiction problem that almost killed me at one
point in time.
I’m not saying that all my emotional
problems stemmed from the fact that I was denied a simple, yet harrowing truth,
but I am convinced that not being able to properly process my grandfather’s
death definitely influenced my emotional issues early on. Although I do not
blame my parents for making an uninformed decision, I do wish there would have
been more resources at the time that would have helped them deal with such an
unexpected and painful situation.
Today I am sober and happy with the life I
lead. As a father now, I do not take for granted what I learned through my own
experiences, and I put great effort in keeping a strong line of honest
communication between my son and me.
There are many topics that are difficult to talk about, especially now
that he is becoming a teenager, but we tackle them head on, together, and we
work through them. I don’t hide my weaknesses from him; he knows both my
strengths and my flaws. In return, he has no shame in sharing his with me. This
allows me to really know what is going on, to be able to give him the
appropriate help.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I go back to being
that little kid, eagerly waiting by the door for Grandpa to come home. Then I
see him as he crosses the street, and smiling he opens his arms and runs to
embrace me, happy to see me after returning from his long trip. He then
whispers in my ear. “I am proud of you,” and I smile. Yes, I know. After
everything, you would have definitely been proud of your grandson.
Bio: Jay Chirino is a writer and mental health advocate, soon to publish the novel The Flawed Ones, a in depth exploration into the struggles of mental illness through the eyes of the patients. You can register to receive a free copy now at http://www.theflawedones.com
Take a look at the Authors Page to learn more.
Bio: Jay Chirino is a writer and mental health advocate, soon to publish the novel The Flawed Ones, a in depth exploration into the struggles of mental illness through the eyes of the patients. You can register to receive a free copy now at http://www.theflawedones.com
Take a look at the Authors Page to learn more.