Sometimes You Need To Be Sad To Be Happy

Sometimes, when I'm not paying attention, I catch myself actually feeling empathy towards someone. Usually these moments occur when I've imbibed the right combination of beer, wine, liquor and Trivial Pursuit, but the other day as my girlfriend and I were in the check-out line of our local super market I found myself nearly brought to tears over the plight of an elderly gentleman ahead of us. At first glance he reminded me of my father; which is to say he seemed stately, authoritative and ready to kick my ass, but that's only because I didn't look close enough. After 30 seconds of watching this man fumble with the self swipe credit card machine I noticed his beige cardigan was pock marked with random holes, his navy blue pants were spattered with the occasional stain, and his black dress shoes, oddly, were dazzlingly clean (a remnant from his days in the armed services, I suppose). I felt my heart sink, because I've seen it all before, and it was one of those rare moments in your life when you learn a lesson long after it was supposed to have been learned.

I remember very clearly, to this day, the instant I learned when my Grandma Lucy passed away. I was walking out of school, heading towards my father's car and before I could get in he said "Go back up and get your sport coat, your grandmother died and you'll need it for the funeral and the wake." (Yes, my Dad had no idea how to sugar coat anything and he still doesn't) I was only 14 at the time and my initial reaction fit my age, I flipped the f_ck out. I wasn't sad or hysterical. I was pissed. I was more angry than I'd ever been or would be, and I swear to God, I literally saw red. So, when I turned around to run back inside and get my jacket and a friend of mine said "what's going on, Jim?" I did the only thing I could do. I shoved him into his locker, breaking the door off it's hinges and stomped down the hall towards my locker. I didn't hear the principal yelling my name and I wouldn't find out I was in trouble until a few days later when I got back to school. Luckily, the principal had a heart and let me off the hook considering the events that led up to my transgression. That horrible, horrible feeling of unbridled anger sticks with me to this very day, and it's something I've tried very hard to control, because it made the sadness of the moment that much harder to deal with. The following three days are a blur of sobs, back pats and psalms; which is fine, I'm glad my brain has decided to take those memories out of rotation, because I don't need to remember the minutiae, just the overall feeling of anger that overcame for months, if not years. I didn't know who to blame and I didn't know what was going on, but, unfortunately, I put a lot of effort into laying the blame squarely on the shoulders of my Grandpa Sam, the man whose life was just torn apart because his bride of 60 years had passed away in his arms.

Looking back at it now, through the rose colored glasses of hindsight, I knew it was nobodies fault, and that my Grandma Lucy had been sick for years, and had been in and out of the hospital for months, but I was young and my Grandma was my rock. No matter how sick she was she always put on a brave face for me when I went to visit, and when she was feeling better she cooked my favorite meal (chicken cutlets, mashed potatoes, peas, if you're wondering) and the two of us would fall asleep in our lounge chairs watching Nickelodeon together. Still, at the age, you're always looking for someone to blame for the things that happen, because, as a wise man once said "you're too young to know life sucks." So, unfortunately for my Grandpa Sam, he was the target of all my anger.

3 weeks after the funeral was the annual CYO basketball tournament my team hosted. It was a 3 day endurance test. Sometimes we would play 4 games in a day and have to get up and play 4 more the next day, but that's how it was and I loved it. It was a distraction and it was basketball; which, at the time, was my life. The second day of the tournament, in the middle of the third game of the day, I was in the middle of warming up with my team when I saw my Grandpa Sam shamble into the gym on the arm my mother's arm. He was dressed impeccably, as always in his wool pants, white dress shirt and perfectly shined black dress shoes. He even had a little skip to his step that, when I think about it now, was how he always seemed to get around (hence the nickname "Skippy," that I never understood), and my reaction to his presence was disgusting. I looked at my mother who was smiling proudly, clinging to her father's arm and I mouthed the words "what is he doing here" and "I want him to leave." She ignored me, because she was a great mother who knew me better than I'll ever know myself, and she continued to lead my Grandpa Sam to their seats. I felt my face flush red and with every lay up during my warm ups I slapped the back board a little bit harder, with every pass I tried to hurt the teammate I was passing it to, and it wasn't even game time. My best friend at the time said to me, "you're going to kill someone if you don't calm down," to which I replied, "good, stay out of my way." When the warning bell rang that told us it was time to get to our benches before the game started I looked over my shoulder and sneered at my Grandpa Sam, and he looked right through me like I wasn't there, like he didn't know who I was, so I turned all the way around and made sure he saw me, but I got the same reaction; which made me even more pissed off. Then the game started.

I played like I wanted blood and by the end of the second quarter I got it. I leveled the opposing teams center with an elbow to the mouth that split both of his lips wide open, and because it was in the heat of an aggressive attempt at grabbing a rebound I got away with it. I swaggered away like a boxer who absolutely knows he just knocked the other guy out, and when I looked over at my mother and saw her face turn pale white I knew I did what I wanted to do. It got worse from there. I was, for the most part, smart and I knew how to get away with playing dirty (which, for the record, I hated doing, but, hey, you do what you can to win), so I spent the rest of the game taking shots at the other teams players, making sure they just stayed the f_ck out of my way, and with every elbow and trip I looked up to the stands to make sure my Grandpa knew it was his fault, but I never got a reaction. By the time the game ended I was bruised, but the other team was bloody and my teammates wanted nothing to do with me for the first time I can remember, but I didn't really care. I walked over to my Grandpa and my mother and said, "well, what do you think? How'd I do?" My mother, ever the supportive, doting mom, said "why were you playing like an animal out there? What's wrong with you?" With that I smiled and looked at my Grandpa Sam, he looked straight through me again and said, "Hi, David."

I lost it. I burst into tears in front of the same crowd of people who had just seen me go berserk on the opposing team. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how, in just about 3 weeks time, my Grandpa Sam had slipped so far into the grips of dementia, but as my mother would later explain, he was struggling for a while and taking care of my Grandma Lucy was the only thing keeping him hanging on to reality, and when she died, his mind went into the grave with her.

It was another year before I saw my Grandpa Sam again, now living in a home that could actually take care of him, and we were all at Easter dinner at my Sister's home with her and her new husband. I went through the day doing my best to avoid him, because I couldn't handle the f_cked up reality that was thrown in my lap a year before then and I was still riddled with guilt over the whole thing. As soon as dinner was over I grabbed a golf club, some practice wiffle balls and headed into the backyard to distance myself. I was out there for a while, maybe hours, by myself bashing wiffle balls into the trees and I didn't even notice that my Grandpa Sam had wandered out of the house into the backyard and was watching me. I looked over at him and smiled, he smiled back and said, "What's so hard about that?" I rolled my eyes and laughed and said, "well, why don't you try it" and handed him the golf club. He walked over to one of the wiffle balls, took a practice swing (more of a lurch and push, really) then addressed the ball and pounded one, straight as an arrow right next to wear the rest of mine were landing. He looked at me again, this time smirking and said, "Jimmy, if I can do this, anyone can do this, so what's so hard about it?" I gave him a high five and started laughing. I turned and saw my entire family crying tears of joy behind us and I gave them a thumbs up. Grandpa Sam and I stayed out there a few minutes more, hitting a wiffle ball every couple of minutes, but the sun started to set and it got cold and Grandpa needed to get back to the home.

Before he left I said "that was a great time, Grandpa," and he looked me in the eyes and said, "Hi, David, how are you?" I didn't cry that time. I just let it go and smiled and laughed and I didn't figure out until I saw the elderly man in front of me in line at the grocery store struggle with his credit card, that sometimes, you have to let yourself be sad so you can be happy, because you can't control the world or the tragedies it dishes out, and when you repress any kind of emotion it ends up being used in the worst way possible. I don't know if this makes sense, but it feels good to get off my chest, and any excuse I have to remember my Grandpa Sam is a good one.