My grandfather passed away after a long, troubled relationship with lung cancer, and the sick old man used to call it "his pal." "Private Ass Licker, Scotty, that’s my ‘PAL.’ Don’t waste your time getting friendly with him, kiddo. He’s a prick." I’m not sure why I know so much about him, considering I didn’t know him well at all. Most details are from secondhand sources, and he usually talked at me, not to me. At the age of 47, he stopped smoking abruptly after keeping up the habit for 32 years. I know that until the day he quit, he had a violent temper, and once broke my uncle’s arm after my uncle talked back to my grandmother. "She was my wife before she was your mother, buddy-boy, and nobody talks to my wife like that," is the way my uncle tells the story. Grandpa was 82 when he died 16 years ago, and was one of a handful of people who raised me.
I was only 9, but I know he cried like a baby when they buried Mom and Dad after the Tylenol fiasco in 1982, and I know that’s why he refused any pain medication stronger than aspirin until his own passing. I know he also enjoyed a good inside joke, and "his pal" helped him deal with the news that he’d gone terminal. Without his sense of humor, it would have all been too much for him. His pal was the reason he was so worn out at the end of his life. "Gotta go see my doc, Scotty. My pal filled my lungs with root beer again." Or, "gimme a hand up there, Scotty. My pal is kicking my ass around the block this morning." One thing Grandpa always had was a way with words.
As much as he joked about it, I could see worry in his eyes after he got the news. He didn’t really care about himself, he was just concerned I’d be taken care of and could get by all right. I know he didn’t worry about himself because he told me repeatedly that he’d made his peace with death. Before my Mom passed, she’d cornered him and wouldn’t let up until she’d said her own peace.
"Your mother gave a damn about me for some reason, Scotty. She was a royal pain in the ass most days–damn women preachers always are–but she gave a damn about me and wanted me to know it." Grandpa never really got over Dad’s decision to "let" Mom go to a Lutheran seminary and become an ordained minister, but at least he eventually learned his opinion didn’t matter. She let up only after letting him know that even though he was a stubborn prick, God had seen His share and worse, and loved him anyway. I guess that’s why they got along the way they did–she demonstrated the love she preached.
My grandpa’s sense of humor matched his health–sick. He wrote into his will that he wanted to be buried with an ugly embroidered pillow he’d skillfully stitched together during one long weekend. It was a "manly throw pillow", if such a thing exists, and said in bold block letters, "MY PAL." The pillow personified everything he hated about being sick, and I’d often find it tossed out into the yard or kicked across the room when he’d had just about enough of his pal for the day. He’d added a diagram to his funeral arrangements, showing him in a casket, fingers lace together over his chest holding the bright blue pillow, and a big smile on his face. I didn’t need to ask why he’d drawn himself smiling–he figured he was burying his pal alive with him, and finally getting his revenge after years of suffering.
I got a call from my new doctor last Friday, and it turns out I’m not well. I guess I liked the old doctor better; at least he would’ve lied to me and not ruined my weekend. So in honor of my Grandpa, I welcome my new pal into my life, but for how long, I just don’t know. He’s not kicking my ass yet, but then again, we just met. Already I can tell he’s gonna be a prick.
I was only 9, but I know he cried like a baby when they buried Mom and Dad after the Tylenol fiasco in 1982, and I know that’s why he refused any pain medication stronger than aspirin until his own passing. I know he also enjoyed a good inside joke, and "his pal" helped him deal with the news that he’d gone terminal. Without his sense of humor, it would have all been too much for him. His pal was the reason he was so worn out at the end of his life. "Gotta go see my doc, Scotty. My pal filled my lungs with root beer again." Or, "gimme a hand up there, Scotty. My pal is kicking my ass around the block this morning." One thing Grandpa always had was a way with words.
As much as he joked about it, I could see worry in his eyes after he got the news. He didn’t really care about himself, he was just concerned I’d be taken care of and could get by all right. I know he didn’t worry about himself because he told me repeatedly that he’d made his peace with death. Before my Mom passed, she’d cornered him and wouldn’t let up until she’d said her own peace.
"Your mother gave a damn about me for some reason, Scotty. She was a royal pain in the ass most days–damn women preachers always are–but she gave a damn about me and wanted me to know it." Grandpa never really got over Dad’s decision to "let" Mom go to a Lutheran seminary and become an ordained minister, but at least he eventually learned his opinion didn’t matter. She let up only after letting him know that even though he was a stubborn prick, God had seen His share and worse, and loved him anyway. I guess that’s why they got along the way they did–she demonstrated the love she preached.
My grandpa’s sense of humor matched his health–sick. He wrote into his will that he wanted to be buried with an ugly embroidered pillow he’d skillfully stitched together during one long weekend. It was a "manly throw pillow", if such a thing exists, and said in bold block letters, "MY PAL." The pillow personified everything he hated about being sick, and I’d often find it tossed out into the yard or kicked across the room when he’d had just about enough of his pal for the day. He’d added a diagram to his funeral arrangements, showing him in a casket, fingers lace together over his chest holding the bright blue pillow, and a big smile on his face. I didn’t need to ask why he’d drawn himself smiling–he figured he was burying his pal alive with him, and finally getting his revenge after years of suffering.
I got a call from my new doctor last Friday, and it turns out I’m not well. I guess I liked the old doctor better; at least he would’ve lied to me and not ruined my weekend. So in honor of my Grandpa, I welcome my new pal into my life, but for how long, I just don’t know. He’s not kicking my ass yet, but then again, we just met. Already I can tell he’s gonna be a prick.
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