A Granddaughter's Heart

Spring break from college was barely underway, and I found myself driving to a hospital downtown. I quickly parked the family car on a street near the entrance and headed upstairs to be with everyone. My parents got a parking ticket in the mail later, because I wasn’t really allowed to park there. My lack of concern and attention at the moment was overshadowed by my worry for the man lying in the hospital bed. I walked in and blinked in surprise. Why were there so many people? Purses and belongings were everywhere, like the room had become a second home. A tall, off-white sheet hung from the ceiling splitting the room in half, and the lighting was terrible. So dark. Doctors and nurses scurried around. My parents were in the room, but it was my aunt who held me tight and told me the truth. She gingerly touched my face in both of her hands and relayed the shocking information that broke my young heart. Her eyes welled up as she said the very words to me that I feared the most. "Your Grandpa. He's not going to make it."

I found out that my grandpa was sick near the end of the fall semester of my junior year of college. I was about to walk into my Human Growth and Development class when my mom called my cell phone. She told me Grandpa had been taken by ambulance to the hospital, but they didn’t know how severe it was at the time. Kevin was by my side when I heard the news, and he held me for a few moments before I walked into class by myself. Coincidentally, my professor was prepared that day to lecture on Death and Dying. The title of the in-class reflection essay was, “If you had the chance to show a loved one how you really felt before they passed away, what would you do?” I wrote about the shocking news I had just heard and how I felt. I pushed my hair to the side and laid my head down on my extended left arm. I reflected, wrote slowly, and cried. I didn’t fear the worst, but I was suddenly very aware of the possibility. I hated the timing and prayed for strength to get through until I was home.

That essay turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I brainstormed about a very special Christmas present for my grandparents. For the next month, I compiled several memories from all of my siblings and cousins and pasted them in a large frame. I loved overseeing the project, because I read every single note from each person. Each memory they described made me smile. I could relate to most memories, but some talked about memories they had with Grandpa before I was even born. I felt like I had opened a treasure chest and got to explore the contents before giving it to its rightful owner. The look on Grandma’s face when she opened the present was precious. We did it. We had our chance to say what we wanted to say to our grandpa, because we thought it might be his last Christmas. We were right.

Somehow learning about Grandpa’s illness around Christmastime helped us cope. On my Mom’s side of the family, Christmas was always a big deal to us, because it brought all of the cousins together. Grandpa and Grandma’s house held all of us comfortably, and that is a big deal. Between four daughters, their husbands, and over 20 grandkids, we still somehow had room to roam. Their house felt like a mansion to the kids, and there was always somewhere the girls could sneak off to play games and talk. More often than not, the boys and girls played game after game of Monopoly or Clue, teasing and laughing the whole time. Soon we would end up wrestling each other and running around the house. (If we ran through the kitchen, the adults would scold us and smack our bottoms as we ran by!) Christmas time was really “shenanigan time” with the cousins and we ate it up. Our faces grew beet red from all the energy we were expending, and the adults grew tired of our rowdiness pretty quickly. Time for presents came around, and we all crammed into the living room. Grandpa and Grandma had set up a gorgeous Christmas tree with dozens of presents. We anxiously sat around and listened intently as Grandpa boomed out name after name. He wore his goofy Santa hat and crawled around on his hands and knees to hand out presents. One year my parents gave out hammocks from Brazil, and grandkids piled in with big grins on their faces. Grandpa and the uncles took turns swinging the hammocks with their bare hands, and the giggles were incessant. The pictures that Christmas were priceless. No one wanted those Christmases to end.

Back to the the awful day in the hospital room. It didn’t seem real. My whole body froze and then shook as if I had a fever. My hair stuck to my face, and I went through tissue after tissue. I waited and waited to speak to my grandpa, because so many people were around. I didn’t know that my conversation with him would be the last genuine time I had with the strong Grandpa I knew and loved my whole life. I didn’t know that this was goodbye.

I hesitated but pulled up a chair next to his bed. Of course, there were wires everywhere and he was in an ugly hospital gown. His belly was filled with fluid, and he was so uncomfortable. But he looked at me and talked to me like we always talked. He called me Kimberly. We held hands, and I didn’t really know what to say. He just kept shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He didn’t like the idea of a disease eating away at him, piece by piece.  Half of his mouth drooped from a case of Bells-Palsy he once had. His smile was permanently halved, and we loved it that way. I didn’t see him smile on that hospital bed. He sat up the best he could, and he still had strength to speak with his grand-daughter so carefully. He didn’t like to see me so sad. I left bits of my young heart on that hospital bed. My eyes stared deep into his and I told him that I didn’t want to say goodbye. I told him that I didn’t want this to happen. I told him how much I loved him. He shook his head again and said my name. He loved me right back. He watched me grow up. From a blonde, spunky little girl to a grown woman. He didn’t want to say goodbye, either. I hugged him about 10 times. Each time, I didn’t want it to be the last. I thought it might, so I just hugged him again. I didn’t want to leave him. His strong arms embraced me, and we said our parting words. I forced myself to walk away and left the hospital with a devastating reality shock.

Cornelius “Casey” Staal, passed away in his home two months later on May 31st, 2009. It was the week after the observed Memorial Day.

To be honest, I had no idea that my grandpa’s death was going to affect me the way that it did. We have lived in Texas since 2011, and I can’t even tell you the number of times I have thought about him deeply. I have laid in bed, remembering the man he was to me, and my heart beats slowly and sadly. I didn’t know how much he truly meant to me until I had to say goodbye to him forever. I get flashbacks of moments on the couch with him at our house in Michigan. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me so tight that I could smell his coffee breath. He would dive into a speech for twenty minutes about the intricacies of his watch or explain to me the details about working in a meat-processing facility. I remembered a picture of him wearing a bloody apron and wondered how anyone could enjoy working in a slaughterhouse. I didn’t really mind what we talked about, because we were snuggled up together. When I was held by such a warm and yet powerful man, I felt intense love and care. He always brought pure joy to all of his grandkids when we showed up at his house. Snowmobile rides in the winter were wild, and the piles he had plowed in his yard could have been illegal. He should have patented some of his inventions, too. He cut large barrels in half, put wood on the sides to stabilize it, and hooked up the homemade sled to the back of the snowmobile. He made a teeter totter and massive tire swings in the backyard. I can still remember the smell of the big gray tire swing and the thrill of soaring through the air. He had a brilliant, imaginative mind. He could be so tough on us, too, but I knew he always meant well. He had my highest respect and reverent fear. There is a reason why his name “Casey” lives on in several of the families on my mom’s side. Every time he hugged me so tight, he squeezed a part of himself into me. It has never left, and I am never letting it go.

I dare you to hike Angel's Landing!

I don’t know the name of the craft festival we were visiting that weekend in Michigan. I eyed the rock-climbing tower since the moment we had arrived, but I kept quiet. We had circled around the booths and tables, looking at beaded items and homemade ornaments. I finally got brave and asked my dad if I could try the rock-climbing wall. It was either that or elephant ears. Maybe the sun shone just right on those fake rock clefts, and I desperately wanted to get up there and break my own personal record. My heart beat fast as I was strapped in by a fellow teenager working a summer gig. I looked up to catch a glimpse of the top of the tower and wasn’t scared for a second. After the prompt, I confidently said “Belay On.”  I instinctively put my right foot up and started climbing. Fast. It’s usually pretty easy starting out, and my adrenaline pushed me half-way up the tower. I could hear my Mom clap and say “Go, baby girl!” Suddenly the hand-holds get smaller and farther apart, as if the designers of the rock-wall are tricking me. I begin to repeat to myself, “Climb with your legs, not your arms.” I know the achy feeling the day after I climb, and it’s a rookie mistake. I start to panic a little and wonder if I can make it to the next one. My fingers inch over a tiny blue fake rock with a screw in it… and I have to hang on for a split second while my right foot pushes off to the next rock. The pride of my parents looking on and cheering gives me the confidence I need, and I run out of rock to climb. The wooden balcony is close, and I feel the need to slam my hand against the top and give it a good high five. I am swelling with pride. I feel amazing. I relax in my harness and coast down to the bottom. My hands can’t stop shaking for 5 minutes as I hug my parents and thank my dad for letting me climb. While it’s only a couple of dollars to him, it means everything to me. In my book, I conquered a mountain.

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A couple years ago, we joked with some seminary friends that we should take a road trip to the Grand Canyon. After months of planning and preparation, we actually pulled it off. We spent ten days with our friends Kristine and Aaron Reiskytl traveling out west and visiting several National Parks. At Zion National Park in Utah, there is a hike called “Angel’s Landing.” It is a strenuous, steep, and dangerous hike. With two of the four of us afraid of heights, we were not entirely sold on making it all the way to the top. While I knew this was a debate and understood the concerns, my young body was eager to take on the big challenge. We armed ourselves with trail mix, Gatorade, and sandwiches in our backpacks, not knowing what the day would hold. The trail started slow, and we steadily walked up the incline, careful to get enough air as well as hydrate ourselves. We took a break and photographed the already beautiful scenery. The whipping wind reminded us of our gradual ascent. We smiled and laughed with each other, all of us feeling good.

 As we made our way around the back of the rock, Walter’s Wiggles emerged. Switchbacks lined the way for us, and we anxiously got started. Walk about 25 feet, incline, walk 25 feet, incline. Back and forth, for several minutes all the way up to Scout Lookout. Scout Lookout became our decision post. I would prefer to rename it “Attack of the Evil Chipmunks.” We were warned about these tourist-loving creatures. Chipmunks climb on your back, eat your lunch, bite your hands, and overall give you the most miserable and helpless feeling. It’s impossible to sit on the rocks and enjoy a nice lunch break, because the chipmunks come at you from EVERY angle. They were small but bold and deceivingly vicious. I pictured an unexpected visit to the Emergency Room for rabies and tugged on my husband to walk away with me.

Minutes later we stared up at a skinny trail riddled with thick silver chains. Small trees and vegetation poked up through the rocks. Moment of truth, ladies and gentlemen. I didn’t have to think about it, and I eagerly led the pack, followed by Kevin, Kristine, and Aaron. My hands gripped the chains, and I turned into a little monkey who had just been released into the wild. All I saw in front of me was the clay-colored rock, and I felt an absolute determination to go forward. I climbed and climbed and climbed. I allowed myself to glance down the right side of the sheer rock and felt like I was on a roller coaster with no seatbelt. I occasionally peered back to the others, knowing they were in good hands. I grappled with rock after rock and pressed on, sometimes foregoing the chain and just using my bare hands. I never knew what waited for me around each bend, and curiosity ate at me constantly. 

The last few steps brought us to a large, flat surface, and I knew we had made it. It was a difficult task to harness my energy and stay within the bounds of the surface. I explored every inch of the top and took in the breathtaking landscape of the entire Zion National Park. At nearly 5800 feet, this was the kind of view that you work hard for. 

As if being at the very top wasn’t enough already, I found a skinny rock formation that was a good 10 feet higher and only a couple feet wide. I started up that rock in a hurry, pausing after realizing how windy it felt. At first I didn’t know if I could stand all the way up. I could hear my t-shirt flapping in the wind, and fear quickly surged me. I slowly stood all the way up and felt like Superwoman. THIS was as high as I could get. Kevin looked on with worry, and I promised him I was fine. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face and felt like a little kid on the top of the playground.

Reaching the summit was indeed an accomplishment for all of us. Hiking Angel’s landing is risky, mentally taxing, and flat out scary to most people. The chase to the top, the rush of adrenaline, and the constant climb was so riveting to me. I hiked a trail that some have lost their life on. My footsteps let rocks loose that tumbled down the cliff thousands of feet below me. I clung to a metal chain that determined life or death for me. I embraced the reality that I conquered the feat on my own. 

We may have been on top of the mountain, but I felt like I was on top of the world.

We did it! 

Kristine and Aaron are beasts!

Sunday Morning Angel

My ears perked as I was casually conversing with a friend. She shared with me a heartfelt story of how she recently witnessed a car accident on the highway and stopped to help a young girl who had been involved. I was jealous as she told me what happened, and I genuinely reacted in joy to the way that she was used to be a blessing to this scared girl. What an amazing opportunity!

Weeks later my husband and I were less than five minutes away from church on a Sunday morning. We came up on a large intersection and the light was out. Suddenly we noticed one car in the middle of the road, and another off to the side. Something didn’t feel right. I realized the truth and did everything except jump out of the car. Kevin mentioned that there must have JUST been an accident, and per my intense and sudden command, he pulled our car into the 7-11 gas station to the right. I grabbed my phone out of my bag, stuck it into my jean’s back pocket and took off running. Another man was a few steps behind me and yelled out, “My wife called 911!” I crossed the median and ran towards a redheaded woman who looked to be in her 30’s. She was holding a baby, standing beside a smashed up car. In my peripheral, I saw an elderly man in his Sunday best, slowly creeping out of the driver’s seat of his SUV stopped in the middle of the intersection. From 30 feet away, I could see bright red blood on the cuff of his sleeve. “He’s walking.” I thought. “He’s going to be alright.” It could have been much worse.

The woman’s small, black car had smashed into the electrical box at the corner of the intersection and knocked out the traffic lights. The electrical box to this day is still smashed inward, bearing the scar of this very accident.

My attention turned to a young mom, clutching her 6 month old son in her arms. She had long red, curly hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans. Her day had started out normal. Just another Sunday morning. The baby was calm as could be and didn’t have a scratch on him. I rushed to her side. “My name is Kim. Are you okay?” She was flustered and told me her name and that she had just dropped her husband off at work down the road. Mental note- her husband is nearby. “What happened?” The words couldn’t come out fast enough. “I was driving in the right lane, and I know my light was green! He just cut right in front of me, and I didn’t have any time to react. I know the light was green, he hit me!” She wasn’t furious; she was traumatized. She held her son so close, and we talked about him. He had cried for a few minutes after it happened, but she was beyond thankful that he was okay. She pressed his little face to hers, and a few tears escaped.

She was taller and bigger than me, but I stood close to her and rubbed her shoulder and arms with my hand. At this point I figured she needed more comfort than personal space.  “Can I call your husband for you? Do you need anything from the car?” I retrieved her phone from the car and quickly figured out how to call her husband. “Hello?” I suddenly felt like a professional. “Sir, I am here with your wife. She has been in an accident, but she and the baby are okay.” He didn’t want to talk to me, and I handed her the phone. I took a quick peek in the car to see if there was anything else valuable, and laid a few things near her feet. A gallon of water had busted in the backseat and trickled into the carpet. I found a CD case with dozens of CD’s and began to wipe the water off. She looked down at what I was doing. “Oh yeah, sorry. We’re old school.” I found some baby toys, and we also popped the trunk for needed items. Who knows when she was going to be seeing this car next?

Paramedics arrived and got right to work sweeping the glass from the street and moving the other vehicle from the middle of the intersection. They were working so fast and got the place cleaned up and traffic directed around the crash. They were efficient, kind, and strong men and women. At one point they used brute force to move some metal part of the car back into place.  We were impressed.

After she gave her statement to the police, she was back by herself again. I looked at the red wound on her collarbone from the seatbelt. “I have some cream and medicine. Do you want Advil or Tylenol?” My dad always had packets of medicine with him, and it became a habit for me, too. Kevin brought me my bag, and I pulled out some anti-biotic cream and pills. The initial shock had worn off, and her neck was starting to get sore. I applied the cream on the few cuts and scrapes she had, and she swallowed some pills to ease the pain.

We surveyed the scene, and things were dying down. Her husband finally showed up and wondered who we were. “Are these the people that hit you?” She came quickly to our defense. “No! They came and helped. They have been nothing but help.” I smiled. This was our queue. I hugged her and rubbed her sweet baby’s hand. She looked into my eyes. “Thank you so much. I was so scared. I am just glad my baby is okay. Thank you for everything.” I welcomed her thanks but felt nothing more than gratitude myself that I was able to be there at the split second that she needed me. On that day, in that moment, I was a First Responder. I sprinted to be by her side, because I knew that she needed someone. I wanted to be that someone. 

I wanted to be her Angel. 

My dad, My hero

“Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” – My Dad. 

My tired legs made the short walk across Arnie’s Restaurant parking lot to climb into my 1997 Chevy Lumina in the dark. The inside of my car was dark as well, because the interior lights were broken. My four older brothers drove the car for years before I finally got the chance to drive it to work and school. Between the hundreds of wrestling practices and gym bags, the car almost permanently smelled like sweat. Manly, spoiled, stale sweat. The brake pedal became so worn, you practically had to jam it into the floor to stop, even if you weren’t going very fast. We were all thankful that the radio lasted through the years, but not much else. The car suffered two car accidents—totaled once—and the back door was replaced with a junkyard door. It was also hit by a deer in the front hood, (that’s a whole other story in itself), and we all knew it was on its last leg. I was scared most of the time that the thing was just going to blow up on me. My family assured me that was nearly impossible.

The evening, chock-full of one hungry customer after another, had been a long waitressing shift. I sank into my driver’s seat and mentally unwound from hours on my feet in a fast-paced environment. I loved this job. It was perfect for me. But with the night over, I was ever so thankful. I couldn’t wait to get out of my food-stained black uniform, count my tips from the night, shower, and climb into bed. I glanced at the clock and noticed it was quite late for me. Friday night shifts were the latest, but I usually still made it home well before midnight. The clock read 11:30pm, so I knew no one would be up when I finally stepped into my quiet house.  

I turned right and stopped at the first of many street lights on the East Beltline. Then, as I pressed my foot down on the gas pedal, nothing seemed to happen. I panicked at the abnormality. I “floored” it, but instead, the car gently coasted through the green light. I didn’t get much further. About 30 feet from the light, my precious car simply stopped. At first, I had absolutely no clue what to do. I didn’t even know where the hazard lights were! I fumbled across the steering wheel in the darkness, searching for anything sticking out that could resemble a HELP sign. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw headlights coming at me from behind. This couldn’t be happening. It’s so late, there is bound to be dangerous drivers on the road, and here I am in the left lane like a sitting duck. Suddenly, I notice a  man run up to my window. A split second before I rolled down my window, I found the hazard lights. I flipped them on and then turned to him. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” I frantically exclaimed back that I was okay, because I found my hazard lights. At the moment, apparently, that’s all I cared about. After he left, I turned around quickly and grabbed the orange quilt I kept in the backseat. Winters in Michigan are brutal, and I knew it would get cold if the heat stopped working. I shivered under the blanket and then reached for my phone.

“Mom? Something is wrong with the car. I am on the East Beltline, just past Woodland mall. I got past the light, but there are cars coming at me. I turned on my hazards, and I have a blanket, so I am okay.”

“Dad’s out of bed and on his way!”

After a few minutes, I hung up the phone. Dad was out of bed and on his way, just like that. I barely got out the sentences to my Mom, and she knew trouble immediately. My dad, who sleeps like a bear, quickly dressed and was on his way. For some reason, I was shocked. I didn’t exactly expect him to react like lightning. I am the night person; he is the morning person. When he passes out for the night, he is out for good. Not this time. “He’s coming to get me.” I said to myself. A gentle wave of peace touched me.

The headlights kept coming so quickly behind me and would turn to the other lane at the last second. My thoughts turned to a second disaster of someone possibly hitting me from behind. I literally braced myself for a jolt that I felt sure would come. I just prayed that my little blanket would keep me safe and warm until my Dad came. I couldn’t think past that, and I had to eventually stop looking in the rear view mirror altogether to avoid a panic attack.

I saw our big maroon van barreling down the East Beltline, heading towards me. The Carrel Bus. My heart skipped a beat, and I drew a long breath of relief. My dad. Thank God.

Somehow we managed to get the Lumina to the side of the road, and I hopped in Dad’s van. He asked me what happened, and I explained to him every detail. Come to find out, the car had run out of gas.

Out of gas? Seriously? I know I am a young teenage driver, but am I that stupid? It couldn’t be.

True story. My brothers and I filled the cars up as we needed. Sometime we had a lucky $20. Sometimes we paid with whatever we had with us. Most of the time, it was a measly $5. We didn’t want to pay for each other’s gas. Everything else in the car had broken; I was sure that the gas gauge had been broken at some point. So although I could see that the tank was on E, I didn’t believe it. Surely it was just another thing wrong with the Lumina. Something we laughed about along with the dent from the deer on the front hood.

I wasn’t laughing, though. I felt so foolish. I sat in the passenger side of the van as he took care of the car. We went home, and that was it. My dad didn’t mention anything. He didn’t scold me for not filling up or not paying attention. He could have capitalized on this teachable moment. But, for whatever reason, he let it go. All I can ever think about now, is the simple fact that my dad came to rescue me. And that’s all that matters.