This coming August will mark the four year anniversary of my grandpa Lee’s suicide. I cannot tell you much about him. He is not my biological grandpa, and it is reflected in my choice of wording throughout my life. When my mom would take me over to visit gramma and Lee, she would say exactly that. Gramma and Lee was the term I used.
He did deserve more than that.
And now, a vague history:
As far as I know, I have never met my biological grandpa Vern. It would be impossible to see him now, as he died years ago. I was not notified at the time of his death, because I had Lee. Recently, my gramma has told me of her wedding to Lee. It occurred at about age 3 months for me. I was not there, and neither was my mom. Her two brothers and her were weary of Lee. I will not go into narrating what I have heard, but you can imagine any child(ren) in the situation of a new man moving in and taking mom’s time. In respect to my mom’s opinion of him, she had a hard time with Vern, and never forgave him for how he treated my grandma. Gramma told me he used to cheat on her, spend his paychecks at the track – forcing her and the kids to go hungry – your average dirt bag stories. It is only fair that a child and/or young adult to see any father figure as a dirt bag, after having that kind of experience with them. I have had the story of why gramma married Vern, told to me by my great aunt. She theorizes that my gramma married a dirt bag, because this dirt bag stood up to my great-grandmother. He did the kind of “shining knight” deal.
So my memories of Lee, and my gramma are few and far between. Fortunately at the time, unfortunately for memories, they understood that I was living my own life – and felt it was unfair to infringe on my habits after they had already been created. That is how caring my grandparents were.
Then suddenly, Lee was dead. I knew he was not a healthy man. Some of the talks we had had definitely gave the impression that he asked more out of his body than necessary, working in factories and driving trucks. His stories were extremely powerful. He could put the terms of decades I didn’t know into words I could understand and vividly see. I was there with him in that factory. I was riding shotgun in the semi-truck.
As a child, I used to tease his dog Max. Max was a simple creature. The great ceramic jar holding his treats was always in his line of sight. I would place my hand on the jar just to see his ears rise tall. I would take my hand off and watch his ears droop. Then I would give him a treat. This amused Lee, because it amused me. Then Max died. I haven’t seen his treat jar since.
I live about 11 miles from my gramma’s house. Only, her house is in a place that was only recently recognized as a town. Therefore, all the action was either west or extremely south of where she lived. I only ever really went to the town once I got my drivers license to use the bank and sometimes the post office, when I didn’t have to go to the city to get other stuff done. One day I was walking out of that bank, only to see my gramma walking towards the building I had just left. I stopped and said, “Hi!” She muttered her greeting, and kept walking as though I was a stranger. I thought to myself, “Fine, I’ll go talk to Lee!” (who was sitting in the passenger side of their car.) I tapped on the window, which gave him an obvious start. He rolled down the window and said, “Hello, sweetheart!” in his tone I will never forget. We got to chatting, and he told me they were going to the casino and grandma had to get some cash. She walked by me while I was talking to Lee through the window, sat down, buckled her seat belt and asked him, “Who are you talking to?”
“Your Grand-Daughter, of course.” he replied.
Lee would pull himself out of his chair when I showed up and hug me like… only at that moment was his life complete. Then he would head to the kitchen and prepare a feast. I learned that if I was hungry and looking for a good hiding place, it was at gramma and Lee’s house. This sentiment hasn’t died down since Lee has been gone – gramma is always filling me full of foods either store bought, or acquired from friendly neighbors. This recent Christmas, she sent me home with gifts of food given to her from kindly neighbors.
I was asleep at the time Lee killed himself. I was also asleep when my mom ran out the door, after a cop had showed up looking for her. My gramma had requested her presence. She hardly woke me up as she ran out the door saying something along the lines of, “There is something wrong with Lee.” I was a second shift worker – and my loyalty to that shit bag company found me in my bosses office. I told him I was there, but I wasn’t going to do a damned thing that day. I was a supervisor, but today I would just make sure no one else died. I had talked to mom via phone before I left for work, but my knowledge was that Lee had simply died. I called my mom from the office phone, and talked to her. She dropped the bombshell of a lifetime. During her conversation with me, I was extremely confused about some of the words she was using to describe Lee’s death. Only then did it dawn on her that I didn’t know Lee had killed himself. I was inconsolable.
Pam, the office lady found me laying on the picnic table crying and inquired to my state. She listened to the beginning of my day with quiet interest. She then told me to get off that table and get home. She didn’t care if our boss was mad, work was no place for me on that day. I promptly left.
I soon found myself in gramma’s driveway. It was late into the afternoon, and all the strangers of earlier were gone. This was the first time I came through the living room door – and the last to this point. We hugged, we cried, we talked. The theories of why Lee had taken his life were out on the table as the number one agenda. Apparently Lee had taken his pills on time that morning. His wallet also had cash in it. Someone, somewhere took this as a sign that he had not been planning this day for his death. Taking your pills on time, and having a stash of cash ready for the next excursion to the casino is not a pre-meditated suicide. Gramma was not at home when it happened. She had an early appointment to get some work done on her car. She arrived home to find Lee’s body just inches away from the front step. If he was planning to take his life before she returned home, it was pointless for him to take his medication that he had to take to survive.
Something had happened to Lee between 8:15 am and 8:30 am to make him decide to take his life. He had written in his notebook that he had taken the pills. There is no reason to believe he would lie about a simple day to day task.
He did take time to write my gramma a goodbye note.
My dearest Barbara, I can’t go on living like this. I’m sorry.
Gramma admitted to us that he had been having troubles with his body as of recently. He had been falling down a lot, and not able to make it to the toilet in time. I’m still not sure why she never called someone for help, but I can believe it was Lee asking her not to. He was a good, proud man. Watching his own body fail must have been terrifying enough, but having others watch him was not acceptable.
Mom and gramma talked about how he had been threatening suicide for 20 some years. Mom had reasoned with him about it. Apparently, he would talk about shooting himself in the bathtub as not to make a huge mess. Mom argued that if Lee did it that way, my gramma would never be able to live in the house again. I sat in horror while these stories became known to me. This was not the story of the Lee I knew. He would tell my gramma that if she ever came home and couldn’t find him, he’d be dead next to the tree his beloved cat was buried under. Throughout these stories, I sat quietly, absorbing a new image of Lee.
I felt bad for him. He was so sick, he had to kill himself next to the doorstep. He couldn’t even make it the 100 feet downhill to his cats burial site. However little I felt I knew this man at this point, I knew it must have hurt him greatly to be sitting next to the step for my gramma to find.
When questioned, the neighbors said they had heard two gun shots. Lee checked to make sure the gun was working, the second shot took his life. He was laying on his back, face toward the sky, eyes closed. It was such a clean shot, that when my gramma approached him – she simply thought he was laying there. The police dug up the blood stained ground and removed it so my gramma wouldn’t have to see his gore every time she walked out her front door.
I have come to terms with the reality of the situation. The things I could have done differently, are just speculation. Life played out the way it did. Even if I would have been able to tell him goodbye, I know it would not be easier. If I would have known about his suicidal ambitions before his death, it would have been no less of a shock.
There is one happy moment through all of this. At the time, I was dating a boy I worked with. Gramma had been over and met this boy. At the time, I knew Lee needed to meet him. I brought the boy to Lee, and introduced them. Gramma told me that the meeting was all Lee talked about for the entire time he was still alive. “Michele brought the boyfriend over just to meet me,” he would tell her. Even though my relationship ended, it makes me happy to know that in a way, it made Lee feel special.
Lee was special.
When I was a baby, Lee offered to take me for ice cream in his truck. My mom was terrified at this notion for unknown reasons. When we returned, I was full of ice cream, Lee was full of ice cream, and his truck cab was full of ice cream. All we did was laugh. I am saddened that I cannot recollect this memory, but I am glad it is told to me over and over again. I not only made Lee laugh, but I spoiled his truck and got him sticky with ice cream. This leads me to believe that he got the best of me, and I of him.
Talking about my grandpa Lee’s suicide comes hard for me. I listen to my gramma talk about her lonely life without him, and cry and hug at appropriate times. About a year ago, I was in a composition class and we were asked to write a narrative. I do not know what led to me deciding to write about Lee’s suicide, but it was a strong urge – and I did it. It would mark the second time I wrote of his death. The first time was a simple diary post for remembrance of the bleak day.
Here is my essay.
—-
A police officer in the front yard of my house notified my mom that something bad had happened to my Grandpa Lee and that my Gramma, as I call her, needed her. I was simply told Lee had died. I called my mom to talk about what had happened, and she used terms unfamiliar in a story where someone had just died. I remember asking her to clarify. “Oh damn, I thought you knew… Lee killed himself,” was what she muttered in a solemn tone. The mystery of why Grandpa Lee took his life left me confused and angry at first.
Lee kept his deteriorating body a secret from me, along with his real thoughts about life. Apparently, Lee had been talking about killing himself for the last twenty or so years. He would tell my Gramma that if she couldn’t find him one day, to call for help because he would be beneath the tree his beloved cat Cleabon was buried, dead. My head hung in total horror when I had learned these things. In my time with him, Lee had always been full of cheer and love. Suicide plus Lee was never an option, at least how I knew him. Gramma continued talking about the medical problems he had been suffering in his old age. He had been on hundreds of different medications and I knew that. What I didn’t know was that he couldn’t always make it to the bathroom. Lee had also been suffering from constant falls. He was losing the dignity a person should have in life, and Gramma never spilled those secrets until after he was gone.
Feeling rage and anger at Lee and myself was not the way I should have been dealing with the death. In the first few hours and days after Lee’s death, I equally cried tears of sorrow and tears of rage. As a granddaughter I should have been visiting him and Gramma more often. I should have been able to say, “I love you!” one more time. Being a better granddaughter to a man who never saw me for anything less than perfect is what he deserved and I couldn’t even deliver that, is what I felt. Then I did the worst thing I could have – I began to feel rage toward him. A thousand different questions raged through my head. They all pointed to one general question, “WHY?” I loved that man, and he hurt me. Rage seemed like a perfect emotion to be feeling at the time.
Some weeks later I began to feel respect and understanding toward Lee and his choice. Lee did not want to live without mind, body, control of his future and as a burden as he saw when his uncle had been forced into a retirement home. Being to several retirement homes and seeing people in their last moments of life, I understood the fear he had been feeling towards losing the choice over his life. I can now say I agree with him about not wanting to die without any remembrance of dignity. Condemning him for dying in an unorthodox way is not what I ever meant to do. I respect that he saw something he feared and conquered it, even if his choice brings me to tears for the rest of my life.
There will honestly never be an end to this narrative. I change daily because of the events of the day Grandpa Lee left me. I have come a long way from the angry girl who was still here hours after he left. The time that has lapsed between then and now still leaves me crying and hurt, but empathizing to understand his last thoughts leaves me feeling complete. I never stopped loving Lee, even when I was red faced angry at his choice. Forgetting about him was never an option. Learning to understand and even respect his decision has been my only option to cope.
—-
I love you, Lee.
