Verge: Goodbye, Grandpa, "Thank you for loving me so selflessly."

Canadian Baseball Network writer Melissa with her grandpa many years ago.

September 27, 2024

By Melissa Verge

Canadian Baseball Network

I want to wake up at your house, blue sleeping bag bunched around me, the smell of oatmeal raisin muffins wafting up the stairs.

I’d shimmy out and run down the stairs and you’d be in your white upholstered chair, black framed glasses perched on your nose, reading the Ottawa Citizen.

The sun would peek through the sliding glass doors in the living room, as Grandma was in the kitchen making breakfast.

I knew it would be a good day because you’d probably let us play with your shaving cream, squishing the foam in between our fingers from the red Gillette canister. I liked the feeling, and the smell, the same as your cheek when we gave you a kiss.

I knew for sure you'd play baseball with us at the park, throwing the ball around with us, hitting grounders and pop flies.

You’d put on one of your long sleeve plaid shirts and tuck it into beige pants and we’d walk to the playground to spend the morning.

We might go to the store after to run some errands, skipping after you up and down the aisle. And I knew you’d call every salesperson, every cashier by name.

Charming and personable, that was you. That was my grandpa.

You gave us compliments freely, but they always were said with meaning.

“I’m so proud of you honey,” or “you’re beautiful.”

Those summers we spent visiting you and Grandma in Ottawa were so special and carefree, before the impermanence of life was truly realized. I had no worries about losing you or Grandma, I was too busy giggling about the boy down the street or reading Archie comics in your room upstairs with my brother and sister.

Childhood, such a beautiful and fleeting time. I slept for too long in my blue sleeping bag at your house and it was over.

If I called your phone now, nobody would answer.

If I knocked on the front door of your house, waiting for you to open the door with a smile and a big grandpa bear hug, you wouldn’t be there. The Blue Jays game, usually playing on the TV in the background, would be turned off, the screen black, the house silent of the sounds of a summer ball game, happy kids, and the delightful smells of Grandma’s cooking.

If I peered through the window looking for you sitting at the dining table eating a plate of mashed potatoes, heavy on the pepper, - absolutely no carrots - it would be empty.

If I looked for you, walking up the basement stairs with a box of cookies for dessert, a smile on your face, (you loved desserts just like me, perhaps I got it from you) there would only be an empty staircase and my memories.

Where you built your life, and the people you built it with, are still here, but you, the one we loved so dearly, are gone forever.

How is it possible that so much time has passed? I still feel like a kid whose grandpa passed, way, way too soon.

It twists and turns my stomach into sad pretzel knots. It chokes me as I lie in bed staring at the white ceiling of my bedroom, and eventually pours out of my body in tears that wet the navy pillowcase.

The way you loved me was so special because you did it without ever expecting or needing anything in return.

You simply just loved me.

You gave and you gave and you gave my entire life to me. You always wanted to make sure I was alright, you always asked if I was okay financially. In university, you paid my phone bill for me for many months, and after graduation, helped pay some of my student loan.

You gave me your time, sitting in the audience with Grandma to watch me graduate.

You made it a priority to know me and be an important part of my life.

I didn’t know your middle name was Keith until we went through your belongings when you were in the hospital.

Or really, what a full and vibrant life you had. You were always just my grandpa, but it’s clear how much more you were than that in this life. You traveled to many places with Grandma. You were an important employee at Bell and used to travel to big cities for work. You were an avid figure skater fan and supporter. You were very social and good friends with your neighbours of many years, that they too came to visit you in the hospital.

And you were given only a few months to live 40 years ago, diagnosed with cancer, yet you defeated the odds.

You still had more left to do, yet selfishly, it still wasn’t enough time for me.

How do you move forward from such overwhelming grief? I slept for too long in that sleeping bag, the sun rose and fell and rose again dozens of times and you were gone.

Take me back to when you gripped your hand tightly closed with a coin inside, and if we pried it open we got the prize. I don’t want reality to be holding that same hand as you lie in the hospital, your time reaching an end.

Perhaps you asked yourself the same question when Grandma passed away just three months earlier. How could you move forward?

I think, if she was still here, you might be, too. She was such an important part of your life, that without her, she became a part of your reason to go. Your heart and your body could not exist in different places, and your heart, that was with her.

You were always a realist, so I know you’d say “it’s just part of life honey.” But I’m a dreamer and I guess I just never thought the day would come I’d have to wake up and you wouldn’t be here anymore.

I’m thankful I got to see you, three months ago when you were still aware, although everything was different then, from the childhood summers that I remembered.

When you get older it’s like life starts over. You were living in a retirement home that looked like a university dorm, pictures of family taped up on the walls. It felt dark and cold, lonely and unfamiliar compared to the lively, bright walls of the home you’d built a life in for so many years.

But although old age had given you a new living space and more pain, there was still so much warmth and joy in you.

Melissa Verge’s grandpa hugging her son — his great grandson.

You tickled my son, your great grandson's, belly and laughed. You shared a muffin with him. You gave us long overdue, big grandpa bear hugs. And still, despite the emotional and physical pain you were in, you gave, covering the cost of our trip to visit Grandma.

Always giving. That was my grandpa.

You must be up there now, giving again, this time the warmest hug to Grandma, telling her you missed her, and looking down on the beautiful family you both created. Three months apart when you’d spent a lifetime together was way too long.

They better have cookies and no carrots, and lots of creamy mashed potatoes up there for you. I wish I could send you a package if they didn’t, filled with hugs and all the things you loved in this life. I miss you already.

Being our grandpa wasn’t a choice, you were from the moment we were born. But the grandpa you were, kind, selfless, humourous, generous - simply the best - you chose to be that for us every day.

Thank you for loving me so selflessly. Thank you for being my grandpa.