Billy’s One Big Regret
It really seems as though 9 times out of 10 if you ask someone if they have any regrets in life they will tell you that they in fact do not. You get that a lot. I guess I can kind of see not having any regrets if you subscribe to the whole “everything happens for a reason” theory. If you think like that, then anything you did in the past (positive or negative) got you to where you are today. So basically if you are happy with your life currently then there is no need in regretting anything because it was all part of the “journey.”
People use that word a lot, don’t they? Journey.
A journey is putting on a backpack, stepping outside your home, and traveling across the country on foot. A journey is parachuting into a jungle with nothing but a knife and an obvious disregard for safety.
A journey is not dragging along, being bogged down in mediocrity, and then putting on that fake smile you sport in every childhood family picture and claiming you are perfectly happy. Therefore, just living your miserable life is not a journey. You are allowed to have regrets. Everything does not happen for a reason, and you can’t justify or escape guilt from past mistakes by rationalizing that they led you to where you are today.
But I’m not here to grill you or give you shit for whatever you’ve done. I’m here to talk about the biggest regret of my life. It isn’t a lost love, or a missed career opportunity. Things like that can be found again, and possibly even better than the original. My big regret is something that I can never rectify. It is something that I can’t simply correct or fix in such a way that I’ll ever really feel better. My big regret is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I regret not spending time with my grandfather once he started to lose his mind.
I was alone with him the first time any sort of sign popped up. We had just finished attending a local baseball game (which we had really gotten into that summer), and we were in the parking lot about to head home. Mind you this was a small town and it was maybe a simple 5 minute drive at best. My grandfather is behind the wheel, and he pulls up to the light. The light turns green. We do not move. I am jarred at a horn coming from the car behind us, but my grandfather does not acknowledge it. I inform him that the light is green, but I might as well have turned my head the other way and whispered it to the air. The horn behind us is no longer giving small beeps with several seconds of pause, but it is now a prolonged beeeeeeeeeeeeep that somehow seems to just get louder and louder. The light turns red again, and the beeping behind us stops. My grandfather looks at me, and with a look of confusion the likes of which I’ll never see again, he asks me:
“How do we get home?”
A simple question, plainly asked.
Man, I didn’t know what to say. Was this some sort of test? Was it a joke? Was there something REALLY wrong here? I pointed out the direction he needed to turn, and for the next few minutes guided my grandfather through the town he had lived in his entire life all the way back to the home he had lived in for over 40 years. I told my grandmother about what had happened, and even though she dismissed it, the look on her face told me something different.
But the nothing happened again for a long while. I mean there was a period of several years where he never had another incident of that nature. By all intents and purposes, I assumed all was well. Then it hit again, it hit hard, and it never stopped hitting. There was no slow progression with his Alzheimer’s. He went from fully functioning adult capable of carrying on (very) intelligent conversation, to someone who it was nearly impossible to carry on a conversation of any length with.
I’m not going to make this super-lengthy, and I’m not going to go into many details. If you’ve seen this illness at work, then you already know how horrible it is and nothing I can type here can do justice to the complete hell Alzheimer’s is on not just the affected individual, but everyone that knows and loves them.
The point of this article is my own major fuck up. Once my grandfather really started getting difficult to interact with, I didn’t do what the rest of my family did. I didn’t make extra effort and I didn’t show extra patience. I just walked away. I still talked to him, the best that anyone could, but it became rarer and rarer as time went on. Call me a pussy or a heartless bastard, but it just got too difficult. It was hard to be around him. It was just too hard and I wasn’t a big enough or good enough or whatever-the-fuck-enough man to deal with it.
It was hard to talk to him. Once a very articulate and intelligent man, and a real joy to conversate with. Now he asked the same questions over and over, and on occasion the conversation would completely reset and he would say “Hey” and start all the way over from the beginning as if I had just walked in the door. It was also hard to look at him. He was always a big man. Not fat mind you, but one of those old war vets that you could tell were in tremendous shape in their younger days and could still probably beat the shit out of someone 50 years younger. He was losing weight, and possibly the most disturbing thing of all was that he not only finally looked his age, but years older. I felt like I didn’t know who I was speaking to, and I wished they would let my grandfather come back.
He never would come back.
He passed away last year (this month), and it is still a passing that weighs on me heavier than any other I have ever dealt with. What hurts the most is… well it is what this article is about. I hardly talked to him the last few years of his life. In fact, our last conversation was by pure chance. He just happened to be visiting my son when I went to pick him up. I’ll always recall that visit. I was told it was the last, very rare, “good” day he had. I spoke to him, and expecting the usual long pauses and repeating that had become commonplace, I found myself very pleasantly surprised. We talked. As in, we really talked. Not about anything major, but just shooting the shit like we used to. We spoke of my son and how big he was getting, my work, and life in general. He seemed to be happy, and just so unaware of what had been eating away at his brain for the last few years. For just one more day and what would go on to be one last time, things were normal. We finally said goodbye, and I took my son out to the car. As we got settled in I asked how his day was going. He told me things were good, and that he was really happy because “Papa played outside with me and even remembered my name all day.” You see, he really didn’t know him any other way.
I had to stop for a moment. I kept most of them in (for a bit longer) but a few tears escaped. Tears of happiness or sadness, your guess is as good as mine. I guess I was just glad I had my grandfather back for one day, but sad because I knew he wouldn’t be staying for long.
Hopeful based on the previous day, I called him the next evening to see how he was doing. As far as he knows he was talking to my uncle the entire time, and not me. I hung up, and the tears held in from yesterday mixed with a new set.
We would not talk again, ever. He passed away a few days later.
I can try to explain why I did what I did… or didn’t do… but I can’t even go about nearly justifying it to myself. But it is my crime and I’ll pay for it the rest of my life. It’s my burden to carry, and I can only hope that it doesn’t weigh me down as heavily as the years go by.
I have a feeling this load ain’t getting any lighter though.
