I begin this chronicle on the heels of my maternal grandfather’s death. He passed away last night around 9:45, peacefully surrounded by his family and friends. I was not there when he passed because I live a five-hour car drive north from the rest of my extended family. I tell you this because it’s what prompts me to begin to write what I’ve wanted to write for a very long time. I’ve mulled over many ideas for blogs never committing to one. I would come up with an imaginative title and theme only to feel disconnected, off course.
Last night I received a phone call from my cousin, Christina, telling me that my grandfather was in the process of dying, “It’s happening”. I was not shocked; I’d been preparing myself for months, as he’d been bedridden for almost a year. But more importantly I wasn’t shocked because for a week now my nightly and morning dreams had been preparing me for this particular event. The morning of the day he died I dreamt that I held my grandmother’s tear filled face in my hands and I told her it was time for grandpa to go. I took hold of her hand and led her into the bedroom to say our tear-drenched goodbyes.
When I awoke I had a tightness in my stomach that I couldn’t explain and a nagging need to call grandma. The day got away from me, one thing led to another and it was 9pm before I had the chance to sit down with the kids in bed. I was about to pick up the phone, when it rang with Christina sobbing on the other end. We cried together, lamenting our desire to be together for grandpa and agreed that she would call me as things progressed. The phone rang again at 9:50pm with the news of his passing. I felt an immediate release in my stomach and a feeling of peace surrounding my grandfather. The tears were like streamers running down my cheeks.
I am one of eight grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren, each of us holds very different memories of him but we all agree that being a practical jokester and troublemaker was his specialty. For me he is a symbol of courage and determination, of bravery and stubbornness.
I am a first generation American. In 1968 my grandfather decided to bring his family to America from Terceira, Azores (one of nine islands that belong to Portugal). At that time there was no future on the island, no running water, no electricity, no room to grow. So in the middle of the night, with out warning to the extended family, my grandfather slipped his family onto a plane bound for America. It blows my mind when I think about the culture shock they must have endured; my mom was seventeen at the time. They persevered, worked hard and built a life in a sleepy Northern California coastal town. My grandfather worked as a mill worker at several mills. He worked the night shift at one and the morning shift at another all with the desire to give his family a better life, a chance to have the American dream.
He inspires me to have courage in the face of fear, to be brave and risk looking like a fool or worse feeling like a failure. I am here today because of his audacity to dream, because he took the leap and risked everything on hope.
In his dying months he was cared for around the clock by my grandmother (who endured cancer during this time and is now in remission), my mother, aunt and uncle. There was not a need that was not met by the coming together of our family.
As he progressively deteriorated he would forget where he was and who was taking care of him. He had some lucid moments but they were quickly replaced by him speaking to family members who’d already passed, ordering his mother for a glass of water. On the phone today my grandmother tearfully said that up to the end of his journey he called for me. “Julie! Julie? Julie.” This was not in character for him since he called all the women in our family Maria. This may sound insignificant to some since he was so out of touch with reality but I savor that he called for me by name. A name I never felt connected to and always wondered why my parents would've picked that name of all names. My siblings are Dino, Franscico and Alina, those are strong Portuguese names and then there is Julie, different, outcast, Americanized.
Me, Julie?! Really? I can’t imagine why since he loved all of us equally. I have a sneaking suspicion that as he began to spend more of his time in a dream state connecting to God and his own higher spirit, he must have seen me there. He must have seen that I’d be able to see through the politics of his faith and be able to communicate with him after his physical death. I feel his presence now guiding me. I have denied my connection to the other side since I was a little girl and I’ve denied it out of fear and a desire to conform. In his death I am inspired to become more myself and share it. I promise to dwell in the realm of possibilities. I am broken open and the tightness in my stomach bleeds out the truth of who I am…me, Julie.
My grandfather is at peace and I feel even more connected to him in his passing than I ever have. O amarei para sempre vovô. O verei nos meus sonhos. Boa noite.
I begin this chronicle on the heels of my maternal grandfather’s death. He passed away last night around 9:45, peacefully surrounded by his family and friends. I was not there when he passed because I live a five-hour car drive north from the rest of my extended family. I tell you this because it’s what prompts me to begin to write what I’ve wanted to write for a very long time. I’ve mulled over many ideas for blogs never committing to one. I would come up with an imaginative title and theme only to feel disconnected, off course.