Grandpa, aka Black Poppy.

He was clearly dying, but he did wait to meet her.
She was only three weeks old when we drove to New York.  It was a surprise to us, but he was in the hospital with intense edema; fluids filling his belly up like a balloon.  So we snuck her in to meet him, my daughter.
My sister has three kids who always called him Black Poppy.  Her oldest daughter named him.  He had black hair, her other grandfather had white hair; Black Poppy, White Poppy.
He reached for Cassidy like a drug, and she was.  They laid in the hospital bed, she nestled in his neck, and they slept.  "Champion nappers," he'd said.
My dad was dying.  My daughter, brand new.

I wasn't sure what to call him.  Black Poppy?  Poppy?  We called my grandfather Pop.  Pop?  I sort of fumbled, averting any term, until I just asked him.
"Dad, what do you want to be called?  I don't know what to call you."
He closed his eyes for a long time.  I waited.
"Grandpa," he said.  "We haven't had a Grandpa for a long time."
And so it was.  Not that he would be around long enough to hear Cassidy call his name.


We spent good time with him, Cassidy and I.  We went back after that weekend and spent long days just sitting with him in the sick room.  They napped, I read, they woke, I fed.  We listened to music and MOTH stories, we talked and talked until words made him sleepy.
"I just want to die," he said.  "I just want to go now."


We talked so intimately, about his regrets and his triumphs.  We spoke of what he learned, of what he knew and what he didn't know.  We spoke of love and relationships, of our relationship, a sometimes painful and rocky road.  We spoke of all of it.

He wanted us to sleep over, so we did, on a bed in the same large room.  He didn't move much anymore from his chair.  I got up to feed Cassidy at 2am and when she was finished and back sleeping, my dad was coughing and uncomfortable.  I went to him.
We stayed up that night until it was getting light outside.  In those wee hours of the morning he spoke of regrets, but also of acceptance.  "I accept my mistakes," he'd said.  "I accept them too," I'd said back.


I don't even have to say how unspeakably tender and precious this time was.  The trajectory between life and death, the polar opposites in one room.  My brand new baby girl, my cancer riddled old man.  When Cassidy and he napped together, she in the crook of his arm, there were moments when electricity would fill the room and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.  I imagined them, communing.
"Don't worry, Grandpa...  I'll tell you all about where I just came from..."
and he, responding;
"Alright, baby grand daughter ... here's a few things I know about life..."
I just knew.  I just knew their meeting was meant to be.  I just knew, right then, that they needed each other.


They had that.  And I am so, so very glad.


Back at the hospital when they'd first met I'd caught sight of a woman wearing long maroon and golden robes.  She was there Saturday and again on Sunday.  My husband, Cassidy and I were leaving just as she was, and we shared an elevator ride.  She cooed over Cassidy.  She explained that she was a buddhist nun, visiting her sister.  I told that my daughter had just met her grandpa for the first time, and that I was so happy they'd met.  We had both come from the cancer ward so there was no need to explain, but she looked at me with such kindness and said "This must be hard for you."
No kidding.  And because I'd been thinking about it, I told her "It is.  Yes.  But what I'm really fearful of is when he passes.  I'm afraid I'm going to be so in my grief I won't be able to take care of my daughter."
"THAT is the most SELFISH THING I've ever heard in my LIFE!"  this stranger buddhist woman blurted out.  "Excuse my french, but that is BULLSHIT!"
Talk about a memorable moment.  And she was completely right, and I needed to hear that.


As it turned out, all that time we'd spent with him the four remaining weeks that he was alive, the four and five day stretches we'd packed up and spent with family in New York, eased my grief.  We had made so much peace.  Together and alone.  We had come to so much peace between us ("Dad," I'd told him, "I think we've transcended the father/daughter relationship and now it's more just like adult to adult."  He nodded, eyes closed, squeezed my hand and said "I know what you mean").  He had come to so much peace with himself (can't beat acceptance), and I had come to peace, as much as I could, with his pending absence in my life.


When he died, I was really okay.  I was really, really okay.  I still am.  I miss him, of course.  Some days, terribly.


Not too long ago I had a quintessential day.  It was beautiful out.  Sunny, a perfect blue sky.  My friend had just opened a restaurant and Cassidy and I drove 45 minutes though back roads, passing farms and hills, cows and horses.  Beautiful.  We had an outstanding breakfast, went to a baby Gap across the street and scored a sweet little Easter dress, and then to a park down the road from there.  Cassidy watched all the big kids, ran up and down a grassy hill, squealed and screeched and laughed and pointed.  I wanted to put her in a bottle.  I wanted to save her in that day forever.
As we drove home, all was well and right and good in my world.  Pure happiness.  Simple joy.
And I wanted to call my dad.  My dad would have appreciated that moment more than anyone I know.  I wanted to call my dad and once again that huge presence of his absence.
So I called him anyway.  I pretended to call him on my cell phone.  I said "hi, daddo..." and burst into tears.  And I told him how happy I was, what a great day, how joyful and delightful Cassidy is.  I glanced at Cassidy in the rearview mirror, sleeping in her car seat.  I rambled on and on.  I told him what I was worried about, what I wished for, what concerned me.  I told him everything.  I watched the rolling farms go by, the red barns and the blue sky.  I told him I miss him, but that I knew he was hearing me.  When I pulled into my driveway and shut off the car, I said, "I do believe you hear me, dad.  But do me a favor and give me a sign.  A little sign would make me feel a lot better."


Later in the afternoon my husband came home from work.  My 13 year old stepdaughter came home from school.  I was still feeling joyful from a beautiful day, and wanted to take her out and maybe buy her a dress or something.  Chris stayed home with the baby.  Charlotte and I drove to the store and found a couple of things for her to try on.  One of them didn't fit so well, but the other was perfect.  She handed me the reject dress and the hanger to sort out while she changed.  I dipped one sleeve to fit the hanger and noticed the label on the dress:  BLACK POPPY.
"Oh my God!  Oh my God!"
What?  Charlotte asked.
"Oh my God!"
What?? Charlotte asked.
"Black Poppy," I said.  "It's my dad."
I laughed and I cried.  And I smiled. xo