On Loss

I don’t believe in a lot of things, but I especially don’t believe in beating around any proverbial bushes, so I’ll come right out and say it: this morning, on his 78th birthday, my grandfather passed away. He had an aneurysm earlier in the week and essentially lost a lifetime of memories, the use of half of his body, and any number of other cognitive faculties on that day.

After the initial damage had been repaired, the other veins and arteries that webbed across and through his brain fell apart, releasing even more blood into his already sensitive situation. The wounds failed to heal because of an unexplained anomaly in his blood that sprang up a few short months ago—he had too many white cells and too few platelets. Even with constant care and the help of doctors, they were unable to seal the leaks. My mother, ever the strongest of her generation, was trying to find a place for him to live out the remainder of his numbered days when he slipped away. He was already unconscious, lost somewhere inside of his injured brain, but it still hit the family hard. At least they have a god, if not the same one my grandfather had, for solace.

It’s at these times—when I lose a beloved friend or family member—when I think of writing an essay entitled “Atheist Meets Foxhole, Is Undeterred,” but I never do. It’s a brash statement to make, that loss doesn’t turn me to religion, and it makes it sound like I have no heart. I do, though. I’m just a bit numb, especially now.

The truth is, my entire life has been spent in a foxhole, one way or another. I never spoke of it, least of all to the internet, but while I was graduating this summer, indeed, while I was giving my final presentations at Antioch, my father was in the hospital recovering (with many complications) from surgery that had recently relieved him of a cancerous internal organ. Before then, there were other troubles, and before those, even more. Those of you who have read the early entries to this blog know what I’m talking about, those of you who are interested are welcome to go and read them.

But losing my grandfather is different. It’s not my own personal struggle, it’s an irrevocable loss. When I was younger, I had no concept of the changes I would experience when I lost my grandmother, losses that are compounded now with the loss of her loving husband. I’m not even biologically related to the man I lost today, but that doesn’t matter: he married my grandmother long before I was born, took care of my parents when they were in need, and has supported me in my every endeavor—even this one.

What many of you probably hadn’t guessed is that my grandfather is—was—a biblical literalist. One of those, “the earth is six thousand years old,” Christians. The kind who argue in ways that make their pastors blush, retreat, and hit their bibles like never before. When I visited my hometown in the years since my parents moved away, I slept in a room that had two cinderblock-and-plywood bookshelves covered in religious literature. He even had a bible split into several volumes, and, after my grandmother died, a book appeared bearing the title, “Where is God When it Hurts?”

For him, God was always there.

For me, he doesn’t exist.

Yet we would dine together, or get an extremely late breakfast—right on time for me, but lagging far behind his usual 4am wakeup—on my way out of town every time I came. Across the table from one another, eating McDonalds when the budget was tight or fancier eggs and toast, we’d talk about God plainly. He’d make his case, talk to me about the Mormon Church (a heresy in his eyes, though he did appreciate what they’d done for my mother and me), how he believed that God had zapped the fossils in the earth’s crust into existence the day He had created the land—everything. He made allowances for anything that would make his case, working out the miracles as he went. When I mentioned Occam’s Razor, the notion that when all things are equal, the simplest answer is usually the correct one, he would just claim that nothing was simpler than God’s will. The bible was his everything, the beginning and the end of every argument.

As this project grew, I talked with him at length about each of the churches I had visited and what I had learned. Miraculously, he never tried to talk me into a religion, never tried to change me or make me anything other than what I was. I could walk into his house with my hair dyed blue, wearing makeup or women’s clothing and he would scoff a bit, offer me a hug, and get on with discussing what I wanted for dinner. His door was always open and he embodied what a real Christian should. He was a man free of judgment, who even when he spoke of how the bible condemned homosexuality would shrug it off with a raspy Texan laugh and talk about how he didn’t mind homosexuals too much and even enjoyed some of our friends who swung that sinful way.

He was a Texan. He was ex-Navy. He was a biblical literalist. He was a stubborn mule of a man. He was my mother’s stepfather.

But to me, he was grandpa.

My one regret is that my children, when I have them, will never get a chance to know him or his wife, two of the kindest, most understanding people I have ever known. I’m glad that I got to call them mine, while
they were here.

As an Atheist, their loss hits me hard. There are no words—no prayers, no well-wishes—that can console me. The only thing I have is time, memories, and my writing. One way or another, my children will know those who have gone before, even if they themselves have arrived too late.