For the Love and Loss of Grandpa Kitty Cat
I’m so grateful that I am able to say that I lived 23 years, six months, and one week with all of my grandparents on earth with me. On Wednesday, June 14th, my grandfather—always affectionately known as “Grandpa Kitty Cat,” a nickname we gave him as kids for the period of time when my grandparents’ home was occupied by six cats—died. It would be nice to think that studying death makes this easier for me to deal with. I don’t think that death would be such a taboo subject, though, if that were the case.
Being a doctor doesn’t prevent doctors from getting sick, but their professional training can help them to manage that illness. Although I now know what I should do to take care of myself and the rest of my family during this time—even offering support to everyone while I’m 3,446 miles away from them—the grief remains. It sits stinging and hot at the back of my throat, and heavy in my eyes.
Today, those who were lucky enough to have met and been impacted by my grandfather’s presence, strength, courage, love, and kindness will gather to celebrate his life. His was a life that was unrelenting in its challenges and obstacles, but each one was taken in stride, and with grace. As the people who are mourning him come together, I am seeking my own ways to honor his life, loss, and legacy while I’m living in a place that he never visited and I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to tell him about through laughing over stories and flipping through my soon-to-be curated digital photo books.
A few weeks ago, I picked out a final souvenir from my trip to tuck into my suitcase to share a piece of my time exploring the world with those I missed while I was gone. It is a red baseball cap with thick embroidered letters on it, which I had planned to give to Grandpa Kitty Cat. In days past, this hat would be something I could imagine him wearing while sitting on the sidelines of weekend-long softball tournaments for my sister and me. At the moment, the hat sits on a shelf in a cabinet in a strange bedroom in Dublin, a sentimental object unaware that it will never make it to its intended recipient and still months away from going home with me.
If I am honest, it is a bit hard not to feel jealous of my siblings who got to spend more time with our grandfather during what none of us knew would be his final year. One extra Christmas, a few more hugs, another goodbye.
The last day I spent with my Grandpa was July 4, 2022, just three weeks short of a full year before he died. For as long as I can remember, it has been our family tradition to spend the Fourth of July holiday with our grandparents at the Lodge at Geneva-on-the-Lake. Last year, I drove out early in the morning to meet them for breakfast and stay the day, lounging by the pool, and soaking up time in the sun. At lunchtime, my grandfather and I went and had a meal together by ourselves. We sat and chatted for more than an hour before joining the others. I wish I could say that we engaged in a profound discussion about growing up, taking risks, or the importance of family. But we didn’t. We talked about normal, everyday things, the details of which I don’t fully remember. There is some sense of comfort in knowing that it was a conversation just like the thousands of others we had throughout my life.
Looking back, I could shake myself for deciding to leave the lake early that day, opting not to stay for the fireworks so that I could get back home before it was too late, too dark, and I was too tired.
I’ve found myself replaying many other memories in my head and wishing I had acted differently then too, wishing that I had held tighter to that time and to those moments. When I was younger—true to the reputation that has maybe accurately been given to redheads like me—I sometimes got upset or angry or picked silly fights with my brother and sister while my Grandpa was visiting. Part of me, of course, regrets this. I long for a do-over, and wish that I had realized I should cherish that time more than I did. But life is not perfect—it is messy and chaotic. And my Grandpa was never upset or angry with me. At the end of each visit, I was always offered dessert and wrapped up in the biggest hugs.
In this family, we love our traditions. On the Fourth of July, we all operated on an unwritten, often unspoken schedule of sorts. We began with breakfast at the hotel, followed by time spent at the pool at tables and chairs blocked off with towels since early in the morning. Over the weekend, time would be spent down on the boardwalk and playing putt-putt. We made a trip to get some Madsen Donuts and always were sure to have a nice dinner at Ferrante’s. While others enjoyed the wine, I enjoyed the tiramisu. We walked out to the lighthouse to see the sailboats bobbing up and down on the water. In Cleveland, we had a favorite Cheesecake Factory where we’d sit and sip tart strawberry and raspberry lemonades, and order decadent slices of cheesecakes to go. We went to the family picnic in the summer and Villeja Supper every other year on Christmas Eve, making sure to stop by Kraynak’s to see the Christmas decorations while we were in town.
Traditions aren’t static, though. Over the years, ours have shifted quite a bit. Before we made the Cheesecake Factory the place for our family restaurant date with my grandparents, we ate at Ponderosa, and then we couldn’t get enough of the pizza buffet at Cici’s. After I could no longer eat gluten, we found a new restaurant to enjoy each time we got together, and Madsen Donuts and tiramisu from Ferrante’s were no longer part of the rotation. There is a nostalgia, a longing, a sadness in change. But just as our family traditions took on new shapes over time, I know that the rituals built over the years with my Grandpa will not end—they too will take on a new form.
The memories that I have accumulated with Grandpa Kitty Cat over the past 23 years, six months, and one week will forever be held lovingly in my heart. I will not only look for him in my memories, though. I’ll also search in the present to find him in the beauty and simplicity of the everyday as well. In that way, I’ll continue to make memories that include him, always.
My Grandpa may no longer be here with me, but the bond that he and I had will always remain. I will be assured of our continued connection when a stray cat wanders over to me to say hello or a beautiful bird flying by catches my eye. I will remember the times we shared when I find myself drawn to a lighthouse or comforted by a Hallmark movie at Christmas. And I will experience his love enveloping me once again, every year when the Fourth of July sky is lit up with fireworks of glittering colors and sparkling hues.
I’ll experience it all as a different kind of hug from my Grandpa, every bit as meaningful, warm, and special.
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