Linsey Lanier
Sally Kilpatrick
Sia Huff
Romily Bernard
Darcy Crowder
Marilyn Baron
Tami Brothers
Sandra Elzie
Carol Burnside
Debbie Kaufman
Maxine Davis
Tammy Schubert
Susan Carlisle
Pam Asberry
Lindy Chaffin StartPutting Grief into Words
by J Perry Stone
A few weeks ago, I lost my darling grandfather. He was 91. My father woke me at 4:30 in the morning with the words, “Gip is gone,”–a sentence still echoing through my mind. The following is a tribute I wrote the day Gip died because, as a writer, the process of putting life’s most incomprehensible experiences into words is the only thing that makes any real sense.
How do I even begin to find the words with which to properly honor the life of a loved one? Words are such inadequate tools. How the hell can they properly reflect a flesh and bone life? I’m writing this February 5, 2010, ten strange hours after the death of my grandfather–strange hours because Gip isn’t living in them. I am heartbroken and yet here I sit at the computer, a tangle of sentences running through my mind.
I have a lot of memories of Gip, though none quite as poignant as those that fall within the “Gip years”–the years after my son first babbled out the name, because “Great Grandpa” was far too complicated for a 22 month old to say. Thus Grandpa was proclaimed “Gip,” and the name fit like an old saddle.
We all have shared memories of him: the Barney Fife-isms that made us laugh, the cowboy hats always perched on his head at a jaunty angle and, of course, the farting. Dad and I talked about wishing someone could have let one rip before he died because nothing sent him into fits of laughter quite like a fart.
But everybody knew that about Gip. This is my tribute to him and I want to share favorite memories you may not know–private memories that let you know just how deeply he touched my life, so you can see even more of him.
The first memory happened at Thanksgiving about six years ago. As everyone knew except me, Gip always got up very early to study. At the time, I was getting up early as well, but I was doing it to work on a novel before my small children woke to demand all my attentions. I came down the stairs, set up my computer on the kitchen table and started tapping away. I got through one measly sentence when out trudged Gip with his Bible. I made us coffee then Gip and I started talking religion–a passion we didn’t realize we both shared until that morning.
For years I suspect Gip worried over the spiritual health of his particular flock: his children, grandchildren and their children. I think half the reason he hung on to a pain-filled life for so very long was to ensure our spiritual well-being. But that morning–that quiet morning while it was still dark outside–Gip and I talked about what we thought was the most important spiritual message of all: If you want to be truly happy, give to others. Think of others first and there you’ll find joy.
I didn’t mention to Gip I went to another kind of church, but a church just the same. He didn’t know I teach religion classes to children every other week, that I volunteer and pray/meditate and think about my spiritual path every day of my life. He worried for nothing it seems, but that’s only because he was so bent on giving to others the joy he’d found, in just the same language in which he’d found it.
And I know Gip was happy. I used to have a picture of him in my mind as a sort of lost cowboy–a “pistol-packing parson” grossly misplaced in the 20th century. As a teenager, I always thought he should be toting a gun and a Bible, traveling from one dusty saloon town to the next.
I thought all that until our talk. At the table he looked at me, placed his arthritis-ravaged hand over mine and told me I had it exactly right. Told me all we ever had to worry about was giving to others.
Neither one of us got a thing done that morning. Our relatives woke. The house grew noisy. The sun came up. But something was different between Gip and me, a quiet look and smile passing between us many more times during the rest of that day.
Give to others and you’ll be happy. Take yourself out of it: what you’re getting, what you may not be getting. Truly give yourself to others.
I suspect the above is why, even on his deathbed, Gip cracked jokes. Why he never complained about the pain tearing through him on a daily basis.
So no, a pistol-packing parson is not how I’ll remember him, but more as a man who mastered the art of joy.
My other memory is of the last time I saw him, five days before his death. His fingers, now twisted to the shape of Z’s, clasped at my hand. He stared up at me from his bed, the oxygen tank humming loudly beside it. I kissed Gip on both cheeks and on his forehead, leaving bright red lipstick prints on his pale skin. I told him I loved him over and over again. He told me the same, over and over again. Our sentences ran over each other … as did our love.
Give to others and you’ll be happy. As Gip said in a last effort to make us laugh as he lay dying, “Don’t that just make you want to kiss a bull’s ass?”
Now you. How has writing helped you through life’s most difficult times? If you’re a reader, how has reading helped?
Tags: Gip, Grief, J Perry Stone
About the author
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J Perry Stone | J Perry Stone has a big mouth and bigger heart; a short memory and shorter attention span. She's uncomfortable with pretension and formality, and couldn't live in this world without ethnic food, wine and saucy books.
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February 26th, 2010 at 2:02 am
Such a great memory of him, you were truly blessed with a gem.
Writing comes from the soul. It touches every part of my life.
February 26th, 2010 at 6:58 am
It does come from the soul, Tammy. I only wish that my writing didn’t sometimes look like it came from the sole
February 26th, 2010 at 7:05 am
You brought tears to my eyes, JP. But in a good way. I’m in a similar position with my dad who is in the later stages of Alzheimer’s.
Thanks for sharing your good memories of Gip with us. He sounds like one heck of a guy.
Tami
February 26th, 2010 at 7:16 am
Being a life coach I too love words. The vehicles I usually use are are mouth and ears rather than paper and pen or screens and keyboards like you youngn’s but none the less words. I’m happy that you gained from his life and even more happy that by listening to his words Gip gained from yours. I am also happy that Gip and my mom are together ……in our happy memories.
February 26th, 2010 at 7:22 am
Girl you have a gift!!Your grandpa saw something special in you for you two had a connection. You continue to do what he said “give to others and you’ll be happy”. He was a wonderful gem of a man–a smile to light up the room–even then he was helping someone.
February 26th, 2010 at 7:46 am
What a beautiful and loving tribute to Gip, JP. The love and joy of your special relationship shines through in every word you’ve written. As hard as it is to have lost him, I give thanks for the years that such a wonderful person blessed your life.
February 26th, 2010 at 7:50 am
Oh Tami, I’m so sorry about your dad. Watching my own father lose his father has been particularly heart-wrenching. It’s so difficult to watch a parent decline. There is an unfairness to it–a how can this be happening to the person who protected and took care of me sort of thing.
{{{hugs}}}
February 26th, 2010 at 7:52 am
What a wonderful tribute to your grandfather, J. I have also lost loved ones, and as a writer, the only things that seems to help at such a time is to express your love in written words.
Gip sounds like such a wonderful human being. I’m so glad to have gotten to know him for just a few moments in your beautiful, touching, and very real portrait of him. I know he’s in a better place.
February 26th, 2010 at 7:54 am
You are so right, darling PJ. I’m extremely lucky and I’m very aware of it (which is also a blessing).
February 26th, 2010 at 7:57 am
It was so strange, Linsey. I knew his death was coming, but after I got that early morning call, all I felt was shock. It’s always such a shock. The cruel finality. In any case, putting it all into words brought everything to the surface. Only then could I sob.
You’ve written your way out of grief, as well?
February 26th, 2010 at 8:06 am
This touches my heart. My own grandfather is so dear to me. How wonderful for us both to have had such incredible men in our lives. I’m so sorry for your loss. You must miss him very much. But what memories! He’ll always be with you.
February 26th, 2010 at 8:08 am
He was my dad, your grandfather and your children’s GIP. We could not have been blessed more!!
February 26th, 2010 at 8:17 am
J, your tribute to Gip brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my heart. The love you had for each other shines through and touches all of us who are lucky enough to read it. Thanks for sharing Gip with us–you were truly blessed!
February 26th, 2010 at 8:19 am
J,
I know your joy at having such a wonderful person in your life and I understand the emptiness at the loss. About eight years ago I lost my father (who also had Alzhiemers) and a month later, my mother from cancer.
They’re hard times, but if we remember the good times, the love you shared and then focus on others and how to pass that love on, their lives will live on through you.
Thanks for the reminder that life isn’t all about us, but about sharing our love with others.
Sandy
February 26th, 2010 at 8:27 am
J,
Missing our loved ones is hard but writing about them offers us a way to keep them with us always through words. Keeps their memories alive. The people we’ve loved and lose are apart of who we are forever.
February 26th, 2010 at 8:30 am
J,
I agree with Gannon. Your tribute to your grandfather made me laugh and cry. It was touching on so many levels and really brought him to life. The love you shared shone through and so did the brilliance of your writing. You were lucky to have him in your life but he was also lucky to have you.
Marilyn
February 26th, 2010 at 9:00 am
Darling Bobby, it’s amazing to me how much the process of translating my feelings into words helped.
Also, what you said about your mom and Gip really made me smile.
February 26th, 2010 at 9:03 am
Andrea, I’m so happy you knew him. What you said–”He was a wonderful gem of a man–a smile to light up the room–even then he was helping someone.”–is right on.
February 26th, 2010 at 9:05 am
Sherri, everyone who has had this sort of relationship can understand, hm?
We’re both so fortunate.
February 26th, 2010 at 9:06 am
Aunt Mary, what really made me cry this morning–while talking to mom and dad–was thinking how much Gip would have loved this sweet attention. It’s really bittersweet, isn’t it?
February 26th, 2010 at 9:09 am
Gannon, I am so glad you’ve seen a part of who he was. He laughed ALL THE TIME. The last time I saw him, he was sleeping most of the time. When he surfaced, however, I told him a fart joke that made him almost spit out his teeth.
February 26th, 2010 at 9:12 am
Sandy, you are exactly right. Life is about loving others.
I’m so sorry about your parents. How awful to have happened so close together. I don’t think I would ever quite get over that. You don’t, really, do you?
February 26th, 2010 at 9:14 am
Susan, I thought about what I could give to Gip and my family who is mourning him, and these words came out.
I read it to everyone because I wanted to give them more of Gip.
February 26th, 2010 at 9:16 am
Marilyn, I’m especially glad you laughed (because that’s what Gip would have wanted), but your kind words made me cry.
February 26th, 2010 at 10:01 am
I woke abruptly at 4 this morning. 3 weeks ago, I sat at my Dad’s side and the loss is no less today! We all knew he was leaving, but life is pretty solemn without him. I thought it would get better as each day passes, but I’m only reminded each day as I wake, of his presence. I can hear his laughter and see his smile and hear his daily words of love. I miss him so much! Yes, we were all so fortunate to have had him all these years. I’m so very glad that you had those special moments together. He was so proud of his family in every endeavor each of us took on. He wanted us all to be happy and to share the love that we all know so well. I will live my life with that memory and will do my best to bring a smile to someone else’s face, as he so often did to mine. Thank you Dear Julianne, for the beautiful tribute to our wonderful “Gip”. He will be missed!
February 26th, 2010 at 10:41 am
What a Lovely tribute, Julianne. And such an honest, heartfelt look at how it feels to lose someone you cherish.
Hugs,
Julie
February 26th, 2010 at 10:43 am
Aunt Colleen, it would be especially difficult for you as every place you turn, there are reminders of him. For goodness sake, you can’t even drive down the road without seeing the turn-off to his little house.
We are lucky though. And you are correct in that he wanted us all to be happy. That said, he would’ve greatly disapproved of you being so sad. However, there’s no help for it, is there? Love you.
February 26th, 2010 at 10:57 am
Thanks, Peanut
What comfort to know that my father and my daughter found so much to admire and love in each other! And your beautiful expression of that will serve to keep him with us always.
I Love you so much,
Dad
ps
haven’t yet had any urges regarding bulls
(still can’t figure out where that came from–morphine in his semi- comatose state perhaps?)
February 26th, 2010 at 11:20 am
Thank you so much, Julie. Coming from you, that really means something.
February 26th, 2010 at 11:24 am
For me, Dad, watching you go through this has been the worst part of it all. I love you so very much.
Laughing my ass off about the bull comment, however. Yeah, it was a little weird, but also classic Gip, no?–Farm animals and some sort of curse word.
February 26th, 2010 at 12:03 pm
Wonderful tribute, J. You should consider submitting a version to the Chicken Soup book on grief that’s coming up because I think being able to laugh is one of the stages of grief. If you’ve got something to laugh about, then you get to keep memories of that person you loved in a happy place. Eventually, the happy will outweigh the sad.
February 26th, 2010 at 12:49 pm
This explains a lot about what a unique and amazing person you are. I’m sure he’s sitting in the clouds somewhere, elbowing the guy next to him and bragging about his amazing granddaughter.
Thanks for sharing this. LYG.
February 26th, 2010 at 1:38 pm
My heart and prayers are with you, J. Gip sounds like a wonderful guy, and you are so lucky to have had him in your life. Lucky, too, that he was alert and himself to the end.
The pain gets better in time but there will always be a Gip-shaped hole in your heart filled with the love he left behind. Like the song says, love remains.
February 26th, 2010 at 3:55 pm
J Perry,
I’m having trouble seeing the computer screen…my tears are too many. I haven’t cried after reading something in a very long time. Your post touched me deeply and I’m so sorry for your loss.
I lost my beloved Poppy nearly 10 years ago. He was a wonderful, wonderful man. Sweet, soft spoken and wonderful. I loved him very much and there still isn’t a day that goes by, honestly, that I don’t think about him. It’s funny how even after a long while you still remember those quiet moments with the people you love. The quiet moments when you connected spiritually in some way…like you and Gip. One day, a long while from now, you’ll still be thinking back on that holiday conversation you shared with him. And I’m sure the memory will continue to make you smile.
God bless you and your family.
Have a nice weekend J.
Tamara
February 26th, 2010 at 3:59 pm
J, there’s really nothing I can say that everyone here hasn’t already expressed so I’ll be unoriginal.
Loved the post. Made me chuckle then made me cry. Blessings. How wonderful that he left you all with such fun memories!
February 26th, 2010 at 4:42 pm
Sally, this really struck a chord with me: “If you’ve got something to laugh about, then you get to keep memories of that person you loved in a happy place.”
There’s a lot of wisdom in that statement.
February 26th, 2010 at 4:44 pm
Ter,
It makes me laugh that you said the elbow thing about Gip. You’ve captured him perfectly.
You’re a doll and I LYG!
J
February 26th, 2010 at 4:52 pm
EC, you are so right to point out our luck at Gip being himself near the end. It’s true. On so many different levels, we’ve been fortunate–his mental health, his long-life, his constant joy, etc.
And you are also dead on about the love remaining. Thank goodness, eh? If my life is a torrent of tears missing all the people I’ve had the opportunity to love, then I’ll be luckiest woman in the world.
February 26th, 2010 at 5:14 pm
Tamara, honey. I was just saying to another friend of mine that when men get past all the things that might have previously boosted their egos (job accolades, physical accomplishments, etc.), they get to the best of themselves. I think the best of people is when they’re at their most vulnerable and honest. Sounds like that is where your Poppy lived, as well.
J
February 26th, 2010 at 5:15 pm
Carol, all I care about is genuine emotion.
Thanks so much.
J
February 26th, 2010 at 7:44 pm
What a gift a man like Gip is to have in your life, J Perry. I cried when I read this and I cried as I read each response. I’ll have to thank you for that at another time.
As J knows, I lost my father thirteen years ago. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him.We didn’t want to see him go and he didn’t want to leave us. He felt, even as sick as he was, that he was letting us down that we weren’t prepared for life without him. And he wasn’t prepared for a life living less able to do for himself and dependent on us.
The day before he passed I told him that we loved him just as he was. That whatever he needed, we would provide it for him. He just smiled wanly, not quite believing me. I leaned in and touched his sweet face and told him that if he was tired and wanted rest, if he was ready to go to God – then we were ready to let him go, as well. It was okay to go.
He passed away the next day at three forty-five in the afternoon. Thirteen years later, it doesn’t become easier – it’s just, well, different.
February 26th, 2010 at 8:29 pm
My father died when I was 29. For weeks after the funeral, I relived the last time I’d seen him when he was very ill, the visitation at the funeral home, the funeral itself. It woke me at night and kept me awake. Finally I decided the write about him — not about the sick, elderly man, but the young father I was actually mourning, the father of my childhood, about being called Little Girl, falling asleep against his vest buttons and riding high on his shoulders. The bad dreams disappeared with that writing and never came back.
February 26th, 2010 at 10:22 pm
Santa, you gave him permission. You, actually, truly accepted him, exactly where he was.
You expressed love in its most pure form: you let him go and with that, he was sure you’d be okay.
Love your guts.
February 26th, 2010 at 10:25 pm
Ruth, interesting how you grieved his younger self. I think my dad might be doing that.
But what you said about his vest buttons and writing away your grief–that is especially poignant to me.
A writer’s heart recognizes its reflection in another.
February 27th, 2010 at 1:29 am
J – I’m so deeply sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing Gip with us. To have left such a legacy of love and happiness behind him speaks volumns – what a wonderful gift his life has been. Time will eventually take the pain of loss away, but never his joy. Joy is forever.
February 27th, 2010 at 8:27 am
Thank you so much, Darcy.
Joy is forever.
February 28th, 2010 at 12:16 pm
What a beautiful tribute, JP. I lost my beloved grandmother, Loretta, last year when she was 94. Her life touched mine in so many ways and I’m the family inheritor of many of her traits and traditions. I think grandchildren and grandparents are the real gift a family gives to one another. I’m so glad you are your Gip’s inheritor and were able to share something so fundamental as joy with him.
February 28th, 2010 at 3:53 pm
Just getting to my reading for the week. I loved this. Your granddad was one special person!
March 1st, 2010 at 6:28 am
Thank you for the wonderful memories of Papa! I sit here in Iraq, wishing that I was home with family after these few weeks of his passing. But I know Papa would want me to be here supporting our country and most of all my family. He truly was a remarkable man. I had many good talks with him and cherish everyone. He will be missed and always loved!!
March 3rd, 2010 at 9:38 pm
J… sorry work kept me away from the computer so much this past week and I wasn’t able to comment at the time.
But we’ve talked about Gip and all he meant to you. I still got all leaky-eyed reading your post, tho.
He sounds like a wonderful man and I wish I’d had the chance to meet him. Love the picture of you two. I can see the family resemblance. LYG
March 3rd, 2010 at 9:41 pm
“‘Gip,’ and the name fit like an old saddle.”
As much as your words, I love that picture. Same smile on you both. So part of his gift to this world is you, JP. We thank him for it.