In My Father's Footsteps

Every little boy wishes to be just like his father. I've seen this in myself, with my own children and with every other little boy I've ever encountered. A father's habits are acquired by their sons, both consciously and unconsciously, and thus, these little quirks of personality are passed down through the generations. Sons learn to become their fathers both figuratively and literally. Be careful what you wish for may be borrowing an old cliché, but the truth rings through, and, like any other bargain made with Fate, you often find that you get more than you'd bargained for. Little did I know that when my grandfather died, it would echo down the years with a sense of déjà vu at the death of my own mother, and I found myself relying on the behavior and lessons learned from my father, for better or for worse, some twenty-five years earlier.

I don't remember much about my grandfather; he was already very old when I was born and sometimes I feel a little guilty that I can't remember him more, or better. The memories are small things really, more like vivid thoughts; there are no color to these memories. A gaunt and grizzled old man in a dark suit, standing in the doorway; a crown of gray hair and that enormous Roman nose. The ever present sparkle in my grandfather's eyes that spoke to me of youth and mischief, even though those eyes had grown weary, wrinkled and tired. What I remember most though, was when my father took me to say goodbye to my grandfather.

My grandfather, the patriarch of our family, had been in the hospital for some time and now he was quickly fading away. I hadn't known; it wasn't the sort of thing that adults tell a five year old boy. My father told me when it was time for a final goodbye and he took me to the hospital to see my grandfather one last time. To the eyes of a young boy, the old man seemed to have faded to almost invisibility. The tubes and wires coiled around his body like angry snakes, writhing, living beings. I took tentative steps toward the bed, trembling with, not fear, but perhaps nothing more than the infinite sadness of a young boy's heart, for I knew, as those too thin arms encircled me and pulled me close to him, his large, bony hands tousling my hair, I knew that this was the end. I remember all of the love that had the heart of that little boy bursting apart at the seams, as my grandfather spoke to me, telling me to be a good boy and a great man; he told me of all of the love in his heart, and then he told me goodbye.

As I left the room, there seemed to be a shadow hanging over my grandfather's bed, a sound that seemed to be almost a rustling of wings, half heard and haunting, it echoed through my mind as I closed the door. Moments later, my grandfather left the mortal prison his body had become; the betrayal of time chiseled so evidently upon his face. And I remember too, the realization of true loss, even at that age. I'm glad I was there, thankful to have had the opportunity to say goodbye.

The world turns, a carousel; years pass, life rises and falls. I had acquired all of the accoutrements of a family, a wife and two sons. Life was good, or so it seemed. The idyllic peace of a Sunday morning was shattered by the tortured shrieking of the telephone. My mother was in the hospital, the prognosis going from bad to worse; she wouldn't be leaving. The boys weren't told much, an adult shouldn't burden young children with these things, but as my mother started fading faster, the children were told and offered the opportunity to say goodbye to their grandmother. Of course they said yes. I remember standing in the hospital room with my sons, when I came to the realization that I was the same age as my father, and my oldest son, Anthony, the same age as myself when my grandfather died. I watched in almost disbelief, as history repeated itself and the scene continued to unfold.

Dominic, my youngest son, gave his grandmother a quick kiss and a hug before running out the door with tears in his eyes, whereas Anthony, at age five, was different. I looked up and I saw the tubes and the wires coiled around my mother's body, once again conjuring an image of angry, writhing snakes; her too thin arms encircling Anthony and pulling him closer. I watched as he held her bony, frail hand in both of his, and it seemed as if she had shrunk; Anthony's hands seemed to envelop hers. I watched as he gently patted her hand and reassured her that everything was going to be alright. I listened to my mother's voice, thin as a reed, as she whispered to him of her love, told him to be a good boy and a great man; how she didn't want to say goodbye. I was so proud watching my stoic little man, my heart bursting at the seams. When we left, he told me, with tears in his eyes, "I'll never see my grandmother again." And in that moment, I knew what he knew, and I knew that he had that same prescient knowledge of death that has haunted me through all of my days.

Despite the many similarities between the two scenes, they were each distinct in their own ways as well. My grandfather's death was caused by a stroke, my mother's was caused by lung cancer. My grandfather died in the hospital, whereas, my mother did indeed make it home once more. She passed away, in her own bed, three days after leaving the hospital, but it wasn't her, it was just the shell of her body; that was all that remained. In a sense, my mother never left the hospital at all; the person that came home just wasn't her. Yet it's only the similarities that seem to play through my memory.

I'm not sure if my father or I made the right choice. Was I condemned to suffer the same fate twenty-five years later? Have I condemned my children and grandchildren to the same fate as my father seems to have condemned me to? I feel that I am not fit to judge, but it would seem that even a history remembered is doomed to repeat itself. I always wanted to be just like my father, my sons want to be just like me. I'm afraid that we've all had our wishes granted, for better or for worse.