goodbye, pipi

Pipi. The Franco-Ontarian term for grandfather.

I've had so many wonderful experiences today, but also a sad one that I'd like to share first. My grandfather, my Pipi, passed away at about 3:00 this morning. He has been in the hospital since the very beginning of August when he fell and broke his hip. My blog followers most likely remember the entry when I shared the story of Pipi being injured, and then my aunt (his youngest daughter) actually dying while he was down the hall from her in ICU. So this is the Pipi that has died. He was a very funny man with a very sweet personality. As I type this, the memories are surfacing. I always remember the tiny little details, and as I go about my life, I always think that the little details of my life are what will be remembered.

I tap-danced for about 9 years starting at the tender age of 3. My lessons were in a basement studio right across the street from Pipi's beautiful home, so on tap-dancing nights, my family visited Pipi during my lesson, and then we always had a big family dinner together. It was usually boiled dinner. I don't know where this recipe surfaced, but it was a smorgasbord of ham, cabbage, carrots and some other stuff, all boiled together in a big pot on the stove, and it was soooo good! I remember one time Pipi went to take a bite of his ham and the whole damn piece just slid down his throat, and he had a horrible choking episode.

Pipi also had a cookie jar that was a ceramic monk, and the lid was the monk's top half and the base was the monk's bottom half. And it was always filled with sandwich cookies, similar to Oreos, but they weren't Oreos. It was usually a combination of the chocolate kind and the vanilla kind. And I always went for the vanilla.

The last time I saw my Pipi was about an hour after Aunt Heather's funeral this past August. We all caravaned to the hospital in our funeral attire, dressed to the nine in our black dresses and navy suits. There were so many of us we had to take turns going into his room to say hello. When I walked in, he looked at me and then looked at my mom. Well, isn't she pretty, he said, and while we all shared a giggle, I loved hearing those words from him. I imagine when I'm 75 and have watched my children's children grow into mothers and fathers themselves, I will feel the same way. We shared a hug and a kiss before I left, and that was the last time I saw him alive.

My mom told me today that while she and her sister were sleeping in the waiting room at the hospital early this morning, before Pipi died, that my aunt heard the door to the room open, but didn't see anyone. When Aunt Laurie told mom this story, my mom was a little stunned. She experienced the exact same thing. And moments later, their brother came to tell them that Pipi had just taken his last breath.

Pipi has lost too many people this year that he loved dearly . . . first his mother, my Mimi. A few short months later, my aunt Lesley, Pipi's sister-in-law, passed away from brain cancer. And just a few short weeks later, he lost his youngest daughter.

I am not one to preach faith on anyone. It is a very personal decision. For me, I was raised Catholic and believe in God, and I believe that when you pass, you get to sit on big fluffy clouds with all of those who went before you that you've missed so much, eating marshmallows and drinking hot chocolate. There is no pain. There is no fear. There are no insecurities. Nobody cries, nobody frowns, and nobody judges. Believing that there is something more powerful than you and I is what gets me, and my family, through these immensely difficult times. Believing that these people who have suffered so much don't just become dust in the ground, but their souls and their spirits live on, is how we deal. There is a beautiful song called Believe by Brooks & Dunn, and there is a line that always gives me goosebumps. You can't tell me that it all ends with a slow ride in a hearst. I couldn't agree more.

I do believe that wireless internet has probably made its way to heaven by now, so to my Pipi, and all of those who have gone before him this year and the many years prior, I will always love and miss you.