Evolving

Grandfather/Latin

My grandfather was someone who, until I met Karter, I considered to be the person I loved most in this world.
I know it seems weird. Like, why wouldn't I love my parents or my sister the most? But it makes sense if you read a bit about my childhood, and how much my parents focused more on their grudges against each other than they did me. My grandfather didn't do anything except love all of his kids and grandkids, and I was considered a favorite, because I was the youngest and final grandchild. There were four of us in total: my oldest cousin, Ed, his younger brother, Brandon, my sister Katie, and me. Ed is about ten years older than me; Brandon about eight years older; Katie about five years older. I've always been the youngest, and I've always been jealous of the relationship my sister had with my cousins. They had five years to get to know each other before they met me, and they bonded over the years as children. By the time I was old enough to hang out with my cousins and do more than pee my own diaper, they were already on their late teenage years, graduating high school. I never got to grow up alongside them like my sister did, and for that, I held a sense of jealousy and resentment against her.
Anyways, my grandpa usually spoiled me a bit because of my age. Not only that, but because of my parents' split. I actually ended up living with them for about a year in junior high, because it was so intense in my own house and I wanted to get away from it all. My grandparent's house became a sanctuary for me to be in. I loved spending time at their house. My grandma would make me peanut butter sandwiches cut into squares and I'd have a cup of Sunkist with it and watch afternoon TV with her. My grandpa would mow the lawn on his sit down mower and I'd kick a soccer ball around and talk to him as he went.
He easily became my favorite person in the world. Through all of my parents' arguing, I knew I could go to him for help. If I had a problem at school, he'd help me try to solve it. When I needed a ride home, he'd pick me up. He was just an amazing person, in the sense that even if you gave him the post impossible task, he'd do it, because family is family, and when family asks for help, you help.
At the start of my sophomore year (tenth grade), my grandpa got sick. He got sick annually with a really bad cold, and it had once or twice developed into pneumonia, so he had been a hospital regular, and had a serious stash of medications that he tucked away for when he needed them. Well, this particular year he had gotten sick and developed pneumonia once again, and he was stuck in the hospital because of it. I don't remember the specifics, because it was such a stressful time in my life because of all of my different responsibilities and, at this time, I was doing a lot of fundraisers for a school trip that I was taking with my high school marching band, so like I said I was busy and exhausted and it was hard to focus on so many things at once. I visited my grandpa as often as I could but it still was only about once a week.
That year in tenth grade I joined Latin club. In my high school, there were three foreign language options: Spanish, French, and Latin. You were required to take two years of a language of your choice. Going into high school, I had heard many things from my sister and my older friends about the different language teachers. I heard the Spanish teacher was really hard; the French teacher was stuck up; the Latin teacher was very eccentric. I ended up not taking a language my freshman year. My sophomore year though, I did.
I signed up for Latin class, and my Latin teacher convinced me to sign up for Latin club. It was actually a worthwhile club, in my opinion. We had meetings every other week in the morning or afternoon depending on when people could get there, and once a month we planned a group activity like watching a movie filmed in Rome or playing Latin games.
That year, March's activity (for the Ides of March) was a movie night. The Latin teacher had us stay after school, because it started at three, and we watched A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, which if you haven't watched, you should. It probably won't make a lick of sense if you've never taken a Latin class before, but if you understand at least the basics of Roman culture, you'll get the movie and laugh your butt off. We started the movie, and I sat down next to my friend Gunner with s bowl of gummy worms and a cup of soda, and I had a great time until my phone rang. I got a few looks, so I walked out into the hall and took the call so I wouldn't bother the other club members trying to enjoy their movie. I answered the phone and on the other end was one of my mom's friends, a woman who I had always called Aunt Jenny, and she was frantic, telling me that I needed to come outside but not explaining why. Assuming it was a joke, I laughed at her, asking her to explain what was up. She wouldn't answer me, and instead told me I seriously needed to come downstairs and bring my bookbag. I did, and I waved a goodbye to my fellow Latin club members who were still enjoying their movie, and went outside. She was waiting for me in her car, and when I hopped in, she just took off, still not bothering to explain. I had no clue what was happening. She drove me to the hospital, which at this point was quickly becoming a second home for me; I had spent many weekends there when my sister was pregnant, and I had spend many weekends there while my grandpa was sick.
Well, when she got there, she just took me to where he was staying. Except, instead of going into his room, she continued down the hall, nodding her head at me to follow her. There was a door at the end of the hall and when she opened it, I saw my entire family. They were all in various states of shock; some of them were in chairs, crying, others were standing up, biting their nails; everyone was doing something different but the same expression registered on their faces: grief.
I asked what was going on, but I had a gut feeling. My mom came up to me and told me my grandpa had passed away that afternoon. I was thrown back into the last memory I have of speaking to him: I was lying on the window seat in his hospital room with one of my fundraiser packets, asking him and my grandma if they wanted anything I was selling, listing off the different snacks and desserts that were being offered in the packet. I remember something about pies. I also remember that my grandpa kept telling me about how he couldn't wait to have some of them. And even more, I remember that all I felt that evening was an overwhelming sense of "get me out of here". I couldn't wait to leave. I was bored and tired and wanted to be doing anything else, like watching TV or sleeping.
Looking back, I am disappointed in myself, because I can't remember if I stopped to tell him I loved him before I left, or if I hugged him or kissed him on the forehead like I usually did. You never remember these things until after you can't change them anymore; I wish to this day I could remember if I did, and if I didn't, I wish I could go back and change it so that I did. I would tell him a million times over that I love him and I am grateful to him for all of the love and support he has given me since I was born. I would thank him for the entire year that he let me live at his house, and all of the free rides he gave me to and from school. I would thank him for always promising to keep me safe. I would thank him for teaching me that when you're outside for a long time in winter and your fingers are cold, you can warm them up by placing them between your legs and letting your body heat warm them back up slowly. I would thank him for instilling values in me and for telling me every single day that I was loved and appreciated and that I was more than the product of my parents.
I remember being told that I could take a few days off school following all of this happening. I took a day off, but went back the following day. I told my mom that I wanted to go to my extracurricular activities, which were musical practice and reading buddies, where I tutored elementary age kids in reading skills. My dad was home at this time, because someone had called him, and he refused to let me go to reading buddies. I managed to force them to let me go to musical practice, though. Everyone deals with grief differently. One of the most important things that my grandpa taught me, he didn't teach me until after he passed away: he taught me how to deal with grief in my own way. I learned that I needed to take time to myself to grieve, but that I needed to continue going to school and going about my after school activities like normal, because for me, stopping my life because of a death made me feel as if I was dying as well. I didn't want to feel like I was dead, yet. I needed to keep living. I eventually got back to school and all of my extracurriculars, and I learned another important thing on top of all of the lessons he had taught me both while living and dead: I learned to always tell my feelings as they are when I feel them. I learned to tell my family I love them as often and as loud as I can, because I never know when it'll be the last time. But of course, like all lessons in life, there are some we forget.
The following years in Latin Club, I was elected President. The second year I actually ran unopposed, because everyone knew I was a good enough leader to be able to lead by myself, and it was so exciting to know that I was trusted with the responsibility. The following year, I had went to the annual movie night in the spring for the Ides of March, and I remember that evening, watching a movie with my club mates, and I remember looking down at my phone, waiting for a call to come in. I had sat in the back of the room, so lucky for me, no one noticed the tears falling silently down my cheeks as I recalled that it was the one year anniversary of my grandpa's death, and the fact that this year I was going to spend it watching a movie uninterrupted. It hurt.