Several years ago, the country swooned over the movie, The Notebook. Girls cried together on couches, promised themselves they'd wait for a love like that, and told their husbands they'd go in peace just like in the movie. I didn't have to watch the movie or read the book. I already knew the story. It was the story of my grandparents and while my grandfather has certainly outlived both of his wives, a piece of him has died each time.
I have tried several times to bring to life his story; one of loss and love. I've tried to eloquently write of the challenges he overcame with the loss of his first wife and finding love again, just to have it taken. But the words, no matter how many times I write them or start over fall terribly short. Maybe, just perhaps, there aren't enough words; for no words could describe the utter despair of losing his wife and the mother to his four children. A wife that not only suffered from schizophrenia, a mental illness that challenges you and those around you to the core, but later from breast cancer which would ultimately take her long before we ever expected.
My mother once wrote about my grandmother. She said she couldn't edit it or even read it over because it was too painful, too emotional. How can you put in to words a person's life? How can you give value so that others can appreciate your loss? How? I don't know how my mother did it, but she did. It's a short piece and offers just a glimpse to the life my grandmother had and the profound impact she had on others. You can read her story here as a guest post on Mom-in-the-Moon.
And while all seemed lost, my mother fulfilled my grandmother's last dying wish and introduced my grandfather to a beautiful and charming lady; Pat. Grandma Pat was a woman that would become a wife he adored and a grandma that spoiled the rest of us rotten. To my younger cousins, she was the only grandmother they ever knew and to me she was the grandmother I knew my grandma always dreamed of being. Still, it was hard, growing up missing Grandma the way I did and at times feeling guilty for loving Grandma Pat just as much. But my grandfather was happy, we were happy, and life seemed to once again be as it should be.
I spent nearly every Sunday curled up on their couch after church, which I've written about here. Every Sunday I learned more life lessons, heard the same old stories, and indulged in all things chocolate. It was comfortable, it was simple, it was our life. Then, my grandmother started to forget simple things, things were uncomfortable, and life got real. She was diagnosed with cancer and later with Alzheimer's. If God only gives you what you're able to handle, my grandfather must be a saint. I watched him cry when things got tough; how he helped my grandmother to the bathroom, get her dress, take her around the block becuase she refused to be in a home that wasn't hers. What broke my heart was watching the woman he loved forget who he was. She'd get angry and demand to be taken home, but she was already there. He never left her side. Not even on her last day. He loved her like he loved my grandmother. And with every kiss, every story, I knew he not only saw his new wife, but also the one he lost many years ago.
No, words can't begin to explain it. Any outsider, trying to understand, would just nod in kind gesture, never fully grasping the love my grandfather had for his wives, a love he shared with us. And while, pictures are worth a thousand words, even they seem to fall short. At any rate, the following pictures, capture just a glimpse at the love my grandfather had for my grandma.
Just a few months after Grandma Pat passed, I traveled home to see my family. I asked Papa to take me to the farm to see it one more time and to stop by Grandma Pat's grave. He grabbed the keys and we were off. Before we left, he asked if he could just go and say goodbye one last time. I sat in the car, but found myself following quickly behind him as I watched him grab grass seed and fertilizer from his trunk. Happy to have had my camera, these pictures show how much he loved her.
"She would have wanted her grass to be the prettiest."
