September 27, 1998   When I woke up this morning, my primary concern was assessing my physical state.  Today is day three past chemo treatment number seven, and for my first five
treatments, day three was the hardest.  However, for the last couple of treatments, the hard day seems to have switched to day two, which is Saturday.  Yesterday, I felt predictably awful all day, further confirming my Saturday hypothesis.  So when I woke up this morning, I lay in bed trying to figure out how bad I felt.  As I slowly got vertical, I started realizing that I did feel a bit better than yesterday.  Still weak, still wiped out, but just a bit perkier.  So that seemed a good way to start the day.

Just as I was swinging my feet over the edge of the bed to actually get up, however, Shaz came in the room and sat down on the bed.  I could tell something was up by the expression on her face.  She told me my Dad had called while I was still in bed, and that my grandfather had died the night before.  My whole family has known this was coming for many months, but the reality of it hit hard just the same.  So I ended up starting the day with a good cry, and have been up and down emotionally quite a bit since.  I realized that part of dealing with this loss should entail writing about my grandfather, or Pepere, as all of us grandchildren called him. 

Pepere's real name was Alexander Briand, and he grew up in North Cambridge, Massachusetts, in a large French Canadian, Catholic family.  My earliest memories of him were when I was probably no more than 2 or 3 years old.  We used to call him FireChief then, which was a long standing joke that evolved from when my brother was a toddler and had a fireman's hat that said FireChief on it.  My grandfather used to call my brother FireChief because of that, and somehow the name got switched around, and for the first five years of my life, we called my grandfather FireChief.  Eventually, we outgrew that and always called him Pepere.  But no matter what we called him, we loved him and he always had a soft spot for us.  He loved to get down on the floor and play silly games with us kids, and did that with my own niece and nephew right up until very recently. 

Pepere was famous for his warmth and sense of humor, and there has always been a lot of laughter in his house.  A big private family joke was the length of time it would take Pepere to tell a funny story, of which he had a seemingly endless supply.  He could never tell one of these stories in less than 10 minutes, mostly because he would laugh so hard between sentences that he couldn't continue.  Those of us listening would end up laughing hysterically as well, but generally not at the actual story, but at my grandfather laughing so hard.  In fact, the stories were usually not nearly as funny on the surface as my grandfather seemed to find them.  It was just
watching him tell them that gave us all such a big kick. 

Pepere always had a sense of humor and a warmth that drew people to him.  I think people loved him instinctively because he loved other people.  He always made you feel cared about and always had a joke for you.  One of the last times I saw him, he still had that wry smile on his face and a quick little joke for me when I came in the door.  I know I will miss those jokes more than anything else.  You really couldn't go to Pepere's house in a bad mood, or if you did, you couldn't stay that way for long.  You also could never leave without one of his famous Care packages, usually with some kind of food from the pantry or some tid bit he had salvaged somewhere.  The last time I saw him, he tried to give me his recently replaced kitchen table chairs.  He hated to see anything go to waste, and wanted all of us to have the things we needed. 

Pepere was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer last February.  At the time, the doctors predicted that he would live only two months.  He proved them all wrong by lasting seven more months, most of which were spent without too much distress on his part.  None of us wanted to see him go, yet none of us wanted him to suffer.  In the end, he probably went at the right time, since things had been getting more and more difficult for him.  When I was diagnosed with lymphoma last May, I struggled with whether I should tell my grandfather about my condition.  I knew he would worry, and I didn't want to place that extra burden on him.  I agonized over it for awhile, and then finally asked Memere what she thought I should do.  She thought it would be best for me not to tell him, since he already had so much to struggle with.  So I never did tell him, which was difficult for me the last time I saw him.  However, I do believe it was the right thing to do, since I know I am going to be OK and I didn't want him to worry about me on top of everything else.  I also know that now he is in a place where he can see what is happening with me, and can help give me strength, and I'm glad for that. 

My grandfather lived to be 89 years old, through two world wars, the great depression, the death of his first wife, five children, five grandchildren and two great grandchildren, the death of his oldest daughter from cancer, and his own triple bypass heart surgery ten years ago.  He lived in the same house with my grandmother for sixty years, and died there in his own bed, with his loving family around him.  He never lost his ability to make the people around him smile. 

One of the things I have learned in the last six months, is the value of what it means to be a good person in this world.  I think we are surrounded by many good
people, but it's easy to get caught up in cynicism or negativity with all the hardship around us.  Most of us think of a great person as someone who accomplishes one of the goals our society aspires to - someone who moves up in the company, wins a political battle, or makes a lot of money.  I have really learned only recently that none of those things makes a person great.  To me, my grandfather was the greatest man I knew.  He never made a lot of money, or did anything with a big public profile.  But he had a heart that his whole family and many other people are now wondering how they will live without.  I believe that is the greatest legacy that any person could leave behind him.  He set an example of good humor, love and optimism in the face of a difficult world, and I will always love him and remember him for that.  I hope that in my life, I can touch as many people as he did, and leave behind even a fraction of the good will that he has.  So if I could say one more thing to him, and I hope he can hear this, it would be "Thanks for everything, Pepere.  I love you very much." 

Carpe Diem 
2:40 PM 
  

 

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