My grandpa. Like Meemaw, but without all the cussing.

If you've been here awhile, you are well acquainted with my wonderful, complicated, loving, stubborn, feisty grandma, Meemaw. You know that I took care of her for 2 of the last 3 years of her life. You also know that she passed away from lung cancer this past December.

I've mentioned her husband, my Poppy, before, but he deserves more than a mention. A girl couldn't ask for a better grandpa than mine was. Everyone liked Poppy. He was kind and generous and trustworthy. He really valued integrity and honesty. More than anyone else in my life, he took the time to talk about the choices we make and how those choices make us. He taught me about character, something I desperately needed more of as a young adult.

He was a "face-time" grandpa. He liked puttering around outside with his grandkids. We worked with him in his tool shed, fed the chickens together, tended to his garden, rode shotgun to the feed store and town, and laughed and sang with him at the dinner table. (I have a cassette recording of Poppy and 2-year-old me singing Ain't She Sweet? together.) He was a champion letter writer.  He wrote letters to us all up until a few months before he died.

My brother Collin and me barbecuing with Poppy in 1983.

How cute was Collin?!     

Bonding with a new generation. 

Nature Boy and Poppy puttering around outside, supervised by Raven and Meemaw and Poppy's sweet chow mix, Sadie.

He understood that we needed that time. He knew that the time with him could fill some of the space left by absent fathers, by troubled mothers. He made each of us feel really and truly loved. And having the Poppy Seal of Approval meant more to me than most people's acceptance. If someone as awesome as Poppy liked and approved of me, I figured I must not be all that bad.

He was my hero.

I lost my grandpa in September of 2008 after a short battle with lung cancer.  His doctor found a shadow on his chest x-ray and referred him to a hospital an hour and a half away for a lung biopsy and a PET scan.  I drove to Texas to take him for his tests.  (The hospital was too far away for my grandma to drive him.) 

Poppy was exposed to asbestos as a young man.*  Doctors had been monitoring spots on his lungs for decades.  He started smoking cigarettes in mid-life, and he always regretted it.  He tried to quit smoking several times, and was finally successful 6 months before he died.  He wanted to be a better example for my then 8-year-old son who had said, "When I grow up, I want to be just like Poppy.  Except I won't smoke." 

A couple weeks after the biopsy, I returned to Texas to take my grandparents to the hospital for the results.  The pulmonologist was very soft-spoken and my grandpa wore hearing aids.  He couldn't hear what the doctor said, so I had to repeat everything to him.  Which means, I was the one who told my grandfather that he had inoperable lung cancer that had spread to his bones.  I had to tell this wonderful man that his doctor believed he had about a year to live.  It was devastating. 

Not only that, but the doctor told us it would no longer be possible for my grandparents to live alone in their home.  He said my grandma would not be able to handle her husband's care by herself and that they needed to choose:  moving in with a relative or moving into a nursing home.

Three weeks later, my grandparents left their home, left most of their belongings, and moved in with me and my family in a tiny 3-bedroom house in another state.  It happened so quickly that there was no time to sell their house.  There was no space for extra furniture.  No room for their many dogs.  (All of their dogs went to live with their youngest son, except for one: their little one-eyed terrier mix, Tina.  She lost her eye in a turf war with a pack of redneck pomeranians.  True story.)

A week after the move, my grandpa was placed on hospice.  And a week after that, he was gone.

Following is the eulogy I wrote for Poppy's funeral.

William Henry Lambert

November 17, 1920-September 21, 2008

“Bill” Lambert was born in California in 1920. He was the youngest of five children. Bill’s father died when he was five, and his mother and the children moved from place to place struggling to make it through the Great Depression. Sometimes they only had potatoes to eat.

Bill voluntarily enlisted in the Army during WWII and served on the U.S. coastal defense until 1944 when he went to Europe to serve under General Patton. Bill was given the chance to go to officer’s training school, but he chose instead to work his way up through the ranks. He made this decision because he saw that officers who hadn’t gone through the ranks weren’t respected like those who had. During his enlistment, Bill attained the rank of Tech Sergeant and was a rifle sharpshooter. He earned several medals including the Bronze Star. He was honorably discharged in November of 1945.

In January 1944, Bill met a fellow soldier’s sister, Dorothy. Nine days later they married. After the war, the Lamberts settled in Illinois near Dorothy’s family. Bill got a job at the Alton & Southern Railroad. He worked as a switchman and union officer, helping workers and management find common ground. He advocated for black men to have the right to apply for railroad jobs, and for testing to be the criteria for hiring decisions. It was his job to notify wives when their husbands were accidentally killed on the tracks, and he worked to get the men's families the largest pensions he could. Bill worked there for 30 years before retiring and moving to Texas.

Bill and Dorothy have four children, five grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. They were married for 64 years. “Poppy” loved horse racing, the Dallas Cowboys, Bill O’Reilly, vegetable gardening, being outside, writing, musicals, and westerns—especially John Wayne movies. His greatest dream was to have his entire family close and provided for. He loved to tell stories and jokes. Sometimes multiple times…

Everyone who knew Bill liked and respected him. He was a true patriot. He had a strong faith in God. He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously, and he did his best to live an honest, virtuous life. He was a wonderful example of the Greatest Generation.
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If you knew Poppy, please leave a comment below sharing a favorite memory of him.

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*My grandpa wasn't diagnosed with mesothelioma (exposure to asbestos is the primary risk factor), but it's possible that he had it.  His cancer was so advanced when it was found that further testing was unnecessary and it wouldn't have been particularly helpful.  Please check out mesothelioma survivor Heather Von St. James's blog.  She's inspiring!

My grandparents: a love story

Have you ever wondered how I ended up living with my grandparents when my parents are very much alive and in my life?  (Surely you sit around pondering how someone as fascinating and together as I am could have had anything but a Cosby-like family growing up, right?  Totally understandable.)

My bond with Meemaw and Poppy started really early.  When I was 5 weeks old, my mom hurt her back while trying to get in shape for boot camp.  Her doctor said no lifting, so she stayed at home and I moved in with her parents.  I lived with Meemaw and Poppy until I was 5 months old.  That's prime bonding time, y'all.  My grandpa still worked long hours at the railroad back then, so I had months of concentrated Meemaw time.

And this is the only time my naked butt will ever be online. Meemaw always said she was going to show this picture at my wedding reception. She didn't do it, but I will in her memory. (*Raises glass*) Two cheeks for Meemaw!

Soooo big!  And back with Mom.

I lived with my grandparents off and on for most of my childhood.  For as long as I can remember, home was always wherever they were.  Sometimes I'd visit for extended periods, and sometimes, when times were tough, my mom, my brother, and I would all move in for awhile.  When it was time to move out on our own, I never wanted to go.  My mom wanted me with her, but I resented her for taking me away from Meemaw and Poppy.  I moved 11 times in 11 years.

I was 2 years old when this photo was taken at my grandparents' farm. My grandma wrote this on the back of it: "I love this picture. Isn't it cute? One sock up & one down."

I was 12 and had been living with my mom and brother for 2 years when I called my grandma to say that I would run away if I couldn't move back in with her and my grandpa.  Things weren't going well at home.  (Did I mention I was 12?)  My mom was a young single mom, and she wasn't receiving child support or parenting help from our dads.  She had to work full-time, and I watched my brother after school and some evenings.  She liked to go out, but my brother and I were scared to be alone at night.  (Back then, the Po Po wouldn't come after you for leaving your kids home alone.)  All in all, it wasn't a hard life.  There were no beatings or neglect.  I believe that my mom did the best she could alone.  But one of the hard truths of life is that sometimes our best isn't enough.  And even if it had been enough, it just wasn't where I felt I belonged. 

Mom and me.  You know this was in the '70s! 

My head looks strangely Oompa Loompa-ish here.

My grandparents were in their 60s when they agreed to take me in permanently.  They became my guardians, and I lived with them until they dropped me off at college.  I was far from a perfect teenager, but I was better for being with them.

I know it was hard for my mom--this bond I shared with Meemaw. But I think she said it best when she told me, "You knew where you needed to be." I've said before that my grandparents saved me. And I mean that.  If mental health care for children had been a common thing in the 80s, I probably would have been diagnosed with a mild attachment disorder.     

Because I'd had a tumultuous childhood, my love for them was the desperate kind. It's why I was so terrified of losing them. There are many benefits to being raised by older and wiser (and more patient!) grandparents. The downside, though, is that these "antique parents" have an expiration date. And it's usually long before most of your peers lose their parents.  I was painfully aware of this, and as they were the constant, the stabilizing force in my life, the thought of living without them was unimaginable.  It still is to an extent. 

But I know how fortunate I am for having had them for as long as I did.  They both lived to 87 years old.  They got to know my son, and he got to know them.

Hard as it was at times, I was blessed to be able to care for them at the end of their lives.  They never made me feel that I owed them.  But I knew that I did.  How do you thank someone for saving your life?    

The back-up plan

It's hard to believe it's been over 3 months now since my grandma died.  I still cry when I think of her.  I talk to her just to say, "I miss you, Meemaw.  And I love you.  Thanks for calling me sweetheart."  I'm tearing up just writing this. 

There was a time in my life when I felt so empty and worthless and incapable of facing the realities of life, that I was sure that I'd take my life when my grandparents died.  They were my parents of the heart.  They were who I clung to.  They were the people who accepted me just as I was, and loved me exactly the way I needed to be loved.  I just didn't think I could handle the pain of losing them.  So I had a plan to escape that pain.  A plan I never told anyone about. 

That was before getting married and becoming a mom, of course.  Having a child gave me fresh joy in life and a powerful reason to endure.  It also gave me something new to fear.

I don't feel empty and worthless anymore, but I still feel incapable of handling the pain of loss. Having endured the losses of my brother to suicide and both of my maternal grandparents to lung cancer hasn't made me feel any stronger, any more resilient in the face of loss. 

I told my husband once that I don't think I have that spark for life that so many people have.  That certainty that their lives will go on no matter what happens.  Tragedy knocks people off their feet every day.  I know this.  Some people turn their grief into positive action, lobbying for changes to laws, starting up foundations, counseling others in similar situations.  I don't know what keeps them going when they've lost it all.  I can only surmise that there is some sort of essential survival instinct.  Some inborn resilience that I don't have.

This doesn't take away from my ability to live a joyful life.  But there's always the fear.  Fear is always riding shotgun with me.  It's the counterweight to the humor and joy I find in life.  Fear is my enemy. 

My mom once told me that she resented me for existing when my brother died at the age of 15.  It meant she had to live on.  She couldn't escape the pain through death.  At the time it felt like one more rejection from her, but now I get it.  I could not survive losing my son.  It would be more than I could bear.  I know this at my core.

I believe that God forgives me for my brokenness.  For having a back-up plan.  And I pray that He eases this burden of fear in my life.  I'm tired of the shadow it casts.

A Catholic Mass is being offered for my grandma at church today.  (Which means I can't skip this week like I did last week...)  If you pray, please say a prayer for us.