Chapter 68
From the Other Side
6/14/94
Dear Frida,
Where will my life be once the lilacs have come and gone again? I know the answer now. Bumpa caught pneumonia and had to go into the hospital. They put cots in his room so Mom, Franny, and I could sleep there. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I sat by his bed holding his hand. His skin was thin and papery like petals pressed in a book. He had an oxygen mask, and moisture from his breath condensed on his eyelashes like dew. Mom made sure the nurse parted his hair on the usual side, and even without his teeth in, he looked peaceful.
The next day Dad came back for the meeting with the doctor who explained how Bumpa’s body was shutting down. Mom called Great-Aunt Irene and Great-Uncle Paul. When they got there we stood in a circle around Bumpa’s bed telling his favorite stories, like the time he was nearly swept off his ship during a typhoon in the South China Sea. He woke up in a maternity ward in Manila because it was the only place that had space for him. That’s the point in the story where Bumpa would say, “Golly, I sure was surprised,” and his face would get as red as a beet. Have I ever told you how modest he was?
After a while the doctor removed his oxygen mask. His breathing started to slow down. Each puff of air was weaker than the one before it, and the stories dissolved so the only sound was the muted beep of the monitors. Franny and I held hands. Dad put his arm around Mom, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Great-Uncle Paul cried softly. They had been friends since he married Great-Aunt Irene in 1933. She looked so lost. Bumpa was the last of her brothers. Her baby brother.
We watched as Bumpa’s spirit filled his body. It felt like it stayed inside him forever making sure it wasn’t leaving anything behind. But it wasn’t forever. He exhaled a long frayed breath, and his body sank into the bed. Dad prayed, thanking God for giving us a man like Bumpa. My thoughts felt thin and clear. A man like Bumpa was my Bumpa. I’ve never felt so fortunate in my whole life.
There are so many cruel deaths in this world, Frida. Maybe the cruelty is what makes them so hard to fathom. It’s a wonder this poor planet doesn’t crumble with grief. I thought Bumpa’s stroke would make his death cruel. I wish he never had it. I wish I could have learned about myself another way. But I get it. That’s not how life works. Before you and I started writing letters, I never could have imagined I’d feel blessed about the death of someone I love so much. My heart’s shattered, but I could be Sven, and my heart could be broken because Bumpa was just a sailor in a single-wide trailer who lived a life of quiet desperation. Or I can be me, and my heart can be broken because I lost a man who lived a life of quiet consequence.
I don’t know what happened in Chicago, but I do know he came back to us. And he taught me how to love just by being who he was. By always having our favorite black licorice in the candy dish and stopping for maple bars Every Single Time he drove across the state to visit because he knew they made us happy. Bumpa lived his love for us. Like Mom helping him with the jigsaw puzzle at the nursing home. She was living her love for him. You’re like Bumpa, Frida. Madeleine L’Engle wrote, “It is the tiny, particular acts of love and joy which are going to swing the balance.” Remember when you bought me that Wallace Stegner novel? And the candied lilacs? It’s not easy since I cut my hair, but I’m wearing the scrunchie you made me right now. I know exactly how you’re going to help the Ramonas find joy and feel secure. One tiny, particular bedtime story, and one tiny, particular spoonful of bosanski lonac, and a million more tiny, particular acts of love at a time.
Love,
Kate