Better Days

It's been a hellish day. Too much work to do, no sleep, and I've done nothing but talk on the phone all day. With such a large family it's hard to keep the flow of information going, to keep everyone in the loop . . . and today was a day when people need to be in the loop.

I'm not going to visit my grandfather in the hospital. I'm not going to say goodbye. I have this image of him in my head, this overwhelming memory -- I'm 12, maybe 13, and all the grown-ups are going on a canoe run. I'm supposed to spend the weekend at Grammie and Granddad Coughlan's, but I don't want to. I want to go canoeing too. Some of the older kids are going, the teenagers, nevermind that they are quite a few years older than me, I think I should be allowed to go too.

I beg. I plead. I cry. I toss a fit. But my parents are having none of it . . . the answer is NO!! End of discussion! Don't say another word about it. And I don't. I sulk all the way to my grandparents house. I sigh. I roll my eyes. But I don't say anything . . . until I see Granddad.

He can tell there's something wrong with me, I look so sad. I flop down on the cot in the verandah, hugging myself tightly and staring at the floor. What's wrong? Normally, I wouldn't respond. Usually, I'd be a little shy and much too afraid of my father to answer. My dad will skin me alive if I ask Granddad if I can go too. My mom shoots me the warning eyebrows and tight lips from across the room.

But I weigh the options . . . it's a weekend thing, surely by Monday my dad won't be mad at me anymore . . . what's the worse thing that could happen . . . then it's out of me, "I want to go on the canoe trip." And before anyone can blink it's settled and I'm going. I'm going with my parents in their boat or Granddad will take me himself, he says.

My parents throw out a few weak remarks to resist . . . but they are no match for my grandfather, he has decided I should go, he has spoken and that's final. I'm all smiles as we go out to Granddad's truck to drive to the launch point.

I've never forgotten that weekend of my first canoe trip. I had a great time, and I don't think I ruined it for anybody. Nobody skinned me alive after all.

I've seen my grandfather since then obviously . . . but really not so much. I haven't seen him since he's been sick. I haven't seen him grow old and frail. The man I remember is tall and broad shouldered. He tells me stories and shows me his tattoo. He smells like horses and leather and soap. He gives me hugs when he sees me and sits with me on the cot. He expects a lot of me, he wants me to be strong. He demands good behaviour and he will punish me if I step out of line.

He takes me haying. He lets me walk with him to the milk box at the bottom of the hill to collect the milk bottles. He lets me follow him all over the place, into the garden, back to the woods, out to the barn. He has the most patience . . . and the shortest fuse. I can see his face whenever I think of him. He's always smiling, teasing me, maybe poking me in the ribs or tickling my feet. This is my Granddad. He's strong and strict and human . . . and I know he loves me.

I don't know this dying man in the hospital bed . . . and I'm afraid if I see him I will see a trace of the man I remember in this stranger's eyes. I don't want my Granddad to be that man. My Granddad is the one who lives in my mind, where he's still got most of his hair and only some of it is grey, where I'm still 12 years old and he's my hero who always takes my side.