Anxieties & Remembering

Well, the funeral weekend is upon us. As I sip on scotch in an attempt to reach through my palate to the history of my deceased grandfather and his forefathers, I also fight through a tightness in the face, chest, and abdomen. Rumor has it that my predictions are coming true, that my being unwilling to attend funeral proceedings will be viewed as disrespectful, leading one or more parties to consider no longer speaking to me. The primary reason why I am not attending the funeral is of course because it is an indoor gathering of people during a pandemic, and at least one of those people is already reportedly ill with some sort of respiratory infection. So yes, I will be ostracized for preventing harm, as my oaths require, and those who continuously mocked the virus and those who fight it will be in attendance, as will the person or persons who gave my grandfather the virus that would give rise to the whole occasion. But I am seen as the selfish one. That being said, I dislike playing the victim, so I will attempt to move on from this preoccupying digression. And I genuinely wish that I could be there.

October 19, 1931 - January 18, 2021

One thing that I thought was so romantic in the most old fashioned sense was how my grandfather proposed to my grandmother by post. I never asked specifically about their dating experience, but it is my understanding that they met in London, and he was only there for a few weeks before taking a job in Kenya. From there, he presumably continued dating her by mail. If I recall correctly, it was a matter of months between meeting and proposal. According to him, the reason why she said "yes" was because "he had a job". They had grown up during the Great Depression, so job security was obviously an enviable thing, but how wonderful that they would remain apparently happily wed for the rest of their lives until she passed. He would say of her that when he was a "maybe", she would make it a "yes" or "no" in a given important decision. He was charming, kind, and intelligent, but she brought a balance to it that I unfortunately never had the chance to learn to appreciate. I wish that I had asked better questions of her. But then again, the only way I ever obtained full answers from my grandfather was by having meals with him without parents or relatives. An unfortunate thing about having a funny family that thinks highly of themselves is that they love to hear themselves talk. I say this as someone who is quite aware of my own tendencies in this area.

The first time my brother and I went out to eat alone with my grandfather last year, he had something to show us. The gleam in his eye and his giddiness was reminiscent of a child who had managed to catch a frog by the creek. It was a card indicating a prepaid cremation, all expenses covered, just as his wife had had when she passed.

I think back to the last time I saw him. It was December 26, 2020. I had seen him earlier that week, but I had also skipped Christmas festivities, and as his cognition was leaving him, seeing people on these occasions were becoming a more treasured thing. We had dinner at our city's British pub. Covid cases were quite high at the time, but the pub was clearly at least at half capacity rather than the required quarter capacity. As at many meals in recent months, I scraped my brain for any question to ask him about his past, any new story to learn from him that evening. This is of course an occasion where if I could go back, I would have just asked him about anything, old or new. And wow, the thought of speaking with him again really brought tears running down my face. I admittedly thought that I "took care" of that in previous writings, but this must be what grief is. I imagine asking him to tell me about when he wrote the charter for a school in Kenya, and hearing his tone as he minimized his role and emphasized the impact that it would have on a young girl's life in such a time and place in the world. Picturing him describing the Terracotta Army and how amazed he was at the detail of the carvings, or about his novel teachings on the book of Revelation, or, more exciting, telling us about growing up during the London bombings of WWII. I had asked him why he took the job in Kenya after he had just acquired one in London, and he referenced the romanticized concept of British colonialism. As someone who has traveled more extensively than most at my age, I assured him that it was quite understandable.

Once, a dear friend of mine and her boyfriend were in town. Our family was having dinner at a hibachi grill restaurant, and I invited this friend to join us. They came and it was a lovely time. At the end of the meal, I assured them that they would not need to pay, as my grandparents were generous in these things. My friend, however, went aside to them and handed him cash in an almost desperate manner. In a rare moment of openly genuine sincerity, he returned the paper bills to her hands and said, "Keep the money. Your presence tonight was the payment."

Regardless of my many complaints about this family, I grew up in immense privilege, and it is easy to say without reservation that this man's influence changed my world in positive ways that I will never know nor be able to articulate. As my sister once put it, "he's the man who gave me everything." But you cannot have a proper legacy without bookends to the start and finish.

Worsening & Bettering

I have been overwhelmed on so many levels. One might ask, "Oh, deadlines? Do you have work to do? What is it that so demands your time and attention?" But such an individual's questions would be met with very little in the way of a substantial explanation. In December of 2019, I was exhausted from nearly two years of constant study and work to complete my degree. Following that, the relief I had hoped for and expected was all tossed aside as I waited for eleven months to be allowed to continue in the next phase of my career. When I took an assessment and found myself to be too poor a candidate to do well on an upcoming test, and when, in the same time period, family members were exposed to Covid-19 positive people and yet refused to isolate while in the same abode as myself, I fled. I fled to my mother's Airbnb in somewhat more rural Canton, Texas, and I hid. And my grandfather died, and I mourned. And I dropped my healthy habits.

Though I have never experienced a break-in at my home, the feeling of having people who are serving as SARS-CoV-2 hosts occupy the shared spaces of your place of residence must surely at least serve as an echo such trauma. So even here in Canton, I am often filled with anxiety. I usually have worse allergies when temperatures drop outside, so I gave up running when I noticed this happening, for fear that I would compromise my lungs with regard to SARS-CoV-2. This is a poorly founded hypothesis of mine. Since I began exercising regularly at university, I have referred to jogging as my antidepressant. I have barely touched my Bible. I drank more. Bourbons led the way of course, with the occasional scotch added to the mix. I did not drink at the levels of those with liver cirrhosis, but I certainly drank enough to cause some small concern in myself. This is in the past tense only because with the winter storm that hit this unforgiving state of Texas, I ran out of liquor and my car has been stuck, so all of my shopping has been done on foot (and the nearest liquor store is half an hour away).

And then one of the few friends that has assured me that I am okay for taking precautions, that Covid-19 is a big deal and all of that, a friend who, along with two others, is one of the co-creators of my podcast, said that she does not care about the vaccines, that she only cared about her grandparents, and since those grandparents are now vaccinated, she is not so concerned about SARS-CoV-2. I said that if we continued talking about it, I would get pissed, and she said "me too" and left the group chat. Bear in mind that this group chat has been ongoing for years, the place where we bounce sketch comedy ideas off of each other all the time and also just share whatever we like. So hopefully something else is going on that she can resolve, because I am a doctor who swore an oath to prevent harm, and that oath does not only apply to my own kin. Not to mention that my grandfather died from it a month ago, and frankly, I do not wish for more people to die from this virus, not if it is within my power to prevent such an event.

Anyway, I worked out a little today. It is still muddy outside from all of the snow so I did not go jogging, but I hope to renew my good habits and get back to studying.

And to be honest, I am not sure that I can pass this test. Nor the one after it. But I did just take two months off from studying, so if ever there was a time when I could possibly feel recharged, I hope that it is now.

Upcoming Funeral Of The Family Patriarch

As difficult as my grandfather's passing was, it was inevitable. Short of the return of Jesus, a topic of great focus for the Bible study which my grandfather's taught on a weekly basis, he was going to pass away. A shortcut was introduced, but it was generally as natural as anything else in this life. Other things related to his passing, however, are not a matter of such necessary consequence. The principle matter to which I am referring is, of course, the funeral in six days. My father, who has continuously lived in denial of Covid-19 and the dangers thereof, told us the date of the funeral and that he expected us all to be there. In my case, of course, such expectations are poorly placed. No claims of "social distancing" are to be reliably believed from my father who had attended church while reportedly noticeably infected with Covid-19. So even though we live in a technologically advanced age in which a group could manage to grieve together to some degree, this is not mentioned as a legitimate option. Everyone could get tested beforehand, or isolate, or anything, but each of these requests would be too much to ask from such a stubborn and prideful people who continually live in denial.

So even as my oldest brother is coming into town, a brother who has been living even more reclusively since the pandemic broke out, I have no plans to be in attendance for this event. To go there would be to mourn a preventable death with those who caused it, and who continue to be in denial about it. A people whose very gathering will represent a chance to instigate further spread of this disease, a further propagation of the mode of death that has ravaged our planet.

I anticipate a difficult weekend in which I will be labeled as a selfish person, a black sheep. How odd that to do the right thing could be so...dreadful. But my family does a poor job at empathy, and at this point, I do not expect them to understand.

My youngest sister, who says cruel things because her psychological disorder compels her to do so, said that I might as well spit in my grandfather's urn if I will miss the service. She later apologized, and then proceeded to insult and berate me via text again until I finally blocked her (again). But the thing is, I have compromised my own rules regarding viral safety in order to have weekly meals with my grandfather for the length of most of the pandemic. The reason why I compromised has been, in a very literal sense, killed by the compromise of others. The funeral will hold the ashes of a deceased grandfather and a room full of those who may be infected with a highly contagious and deadly virus. Needless danger in a dangerous time and, once again, I will likely be made out to be the bad one. But I do not wish to emulate my grandfather by imitating his mode of death. Rather, as I see so many Christians willing to sacrifice the lives of those around them for the sake of small convenience, I will endeavor to see the Christ in these people rather than allow the threatening anger to take hold. Forgive them, for they know not what they do.