I was an old man then, now I'm senior to the octogenarians.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my paternal grandfather. His death came at a difficult time in my life, during which I was immersed in my own problems and my own trials, and functioning in, I admit, an unfortunately self-absorbed haze. When the time came, I dutifully put my shit on hold and grieved briefly with my family, but quickly re-inserted myself into my crap right where I’d left off. As a result, I don’t think I ever really mourned his death. Sure, there have been the usual and expected icy shards, like holidays, and his birthday, and the day we cleaned out his house. But somehow, I seem to have skipped over the shatter.

Last night, I was telling a story about him. A story of an event I’ve thought about many, many times since it happened, and a story which I’ve told at least once or twice before. But last night, out of nowhere, it caught in my throat.

This is the story.

About six months before his death, we threw my grandfather a party for his eighty-fifth birthday. His birthday was in the winter, but the party was thrown in the summer so as to avoid the messiness of winter travel (it was expected that family and friends would come from far and wide), as well as to take full advantage my parents’ beautiful waterfront home. My grandfather always loved it there, and reveled in the water and the peaceful surroundings.

And so the day came, and the masses descended. It was amazing. I saw people I hadn’t seen in years, and quite possibly may never see again. Second cousins, third cousins, great aunts, great uncles, family members once and twice removed (whatever that means). It was a happy occasion, everyone so glad to be reunited for this happy celebration. My grandfather joyfully greeted each friend and family member to come through the door, the highlight most definitely being his older sister, Marie. The two were incredibly close, and spoke on the phone for hours each day, but hadn’t seen each other in years. Old age and failing health had unfortunately made it impossible for them to travel the many miles that separated them. But for this party Marie traveled with her daughter, and though it wasn’t an easy trip, everyone knew she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

When my grandfather saw her come through the door, it was clear we were witnessing something really special. Something so intensely personal, you almost wanted to avert your eyes. It was a tearful, joyous, beautiful reunion. They wrapped their arms around each other, and even after they had collected themselves they remained that way, seated arm in arm on the sofa, as if nothing could separate them during this short time they got to spend together. It was so sweet, and hours of reminiscing followed. Stories were told, pictures were pored over, and I loved getting to sit there and take it all in: the tales I’d never heard, the new accounts of ones I had, and the pure unadulterated delight spread across the faces of my grandfather and great aunt. It was moving to see him so happy.

In general, my grandfather wasn’t really an outwardly happy person. That’s not to say he was sad, or difficult, or...“crotchety.” On the contrary, he was a truly beautiful man. Loving, sensitive, accepting, genuinely friendly, and interested in the people around him, he always had great and devoted friends and neighbors. In fact, right up to the end of his life, I was frequently moved by the devotion shown to him by his little community of non-relations. And yet, under the surface, I always knew that he was...careworn. Unsettled. Worried about things and affected by forces that, growing up, I never could have understood.

But as I got older, and started to recognize some of the same qualities in myself, I started more and more to understand. And that’s why I’ll never forget that day, seated on the couch in my parents’ house, observing the reunion of my grandfather and his sister. Something happened that I know will be with me the rest of my life. At one point, in the course of the conversation, my grandfather made some sort of silly mistake. I don’t even remember what it was. It was just one of those, “Oh Grandpa,” moments, you know, where everyone chuckles and says, “Ho ho, guess that’s what happens when you turn eighty-five, nyuk nyuk,” and no one thinks twice about it, and the conversation moves on.

But this time, I did think twice about it. Because when my grandfather made whatever little mistake he made and everyone chuckled supportively, he actually said, “I hate myself.”

And we all roared with laughter. Including him. Because it was hysterical. It was such a non sequitur. I hate myself??? For that? Oh Grandpa, you’re such a card. Ha ha.

But it affected me. And suddenly, I was no longer quite in the moment. Not entirely present in the revelry occurring on the sofa around me. Because that’s when it hit me. Even though this was clearly a lighthearted moment and a happy time, suddenly I knew that somewhere, deep down, there was some part of my grandfather for which that statement rang true. “I hate myself.” Somehow, this eighty-five year-old man seated before me, who had been through so much, seen so much, created and maintained so much love and so many loving relationships throughout his life, had managed also to maintain a shard of self-loathing so powerful that it was present even during what was one of the most joyful occasions I’d ever witnessed him experience.

And there I sat, in my twenties, finally aware of this common bond between my grandfather and me. A bond to which I had somehow managed to remain blind up to that point. And sitting there, I made a vow like no other vow I have ever made in my life. A vow that I don’t even consider a “vow” so much as a “fact” in its implacability: I will not make it into my eighties and still feel any shred of self-loathing or disgust. I will work this shit out in ways my grandfather was never able to, using methods that were not available to him. Sometime, somehow, I will learn to treat myself the way my grandfather’s devoted friends and loved ones treated him that day, on the celebration of his eighty-fifth birthday.

Even if this were the only thing my grandfather ever gave me (which it’s not), I’d say it’s one hell of a lot.