Memoir/Essay/Family/Life Lessons

In My Life: Fighting Fear and Depression Like a Big Black Bear

The girl really is a fighter….

It sure flies by, doesn’t it?

And while I’m the first to lash out at loved ones for viewing life in a pessimistic manner, I am self-aware enough to know that, despite my protests to the contrary, I am indeed the Mary Magdalene of Glass-Half-Empty. But you can just call me The Patron Saint of Losers.

Wearing only my bottom retainer and big black glasses, I sit here in my pajama bottoms and Yankees t-shirt wanting desperately to write something inspired, funny, poignant. Lasting even. But all I’m doing, really, is skipping stones into that little stream nestled deep in the woods where no one ever sees.

Why? Because I don’t ever leave that little stream nestled deep in the woods where no one ever sees.

Middle-aged, and as every second passes, desperately further away from where I ever wanted to be. Like Alice spiraling down the rabbit hole, there’s nothing I can do but head trip on visions of marmalade jars passing by.

As I give into my freefall and stare in wonderment at those assorted passing jars, I reach out and feel the slightest whisper against the back of my hand: memories flashing before my eyes — accomplishments made, dreams lost, joys, disappointments, and quick glimpses of the portraits of my current longings.

All taunting me until I hit the ground.

It is at that moment, when my plummet comes to a screeching halt, that I think of the word. I know where I’ve been, what this hole is that I’ve fallen through, and I know there’s a way to get through Wonderland to the other side. Its very essence has caused my fall. That word. I scream it out loud with bitterness and rage so loud it echoes to ensure that I hear it and hear it well in hopes that this time, perhaps this time, it will finally sink in.

The word? It’s that four-letter “F” word.

Fear.

He was a big man.

He could have weighed upwards of three or four hundred pounds—maybe more—at his heaviest. But he was tall and big. He had kind eyes and a hearing-aid-enhanced booming voice that was somehow at times oddly high-pitched for such a big, masculine man. A lumberjack by trade when he was much younger, and a freemason of some kind.

In my life, he had always been retired and he spent his time tinkering at his workbench, hunting, bowling, playing bridge, eating lots of fun foods, watching All in The Family, Sanford and Son, or his “story” As The World Turns in his green vibrating chair, and enjoying a good highball.

His eyes sparkled with a certain impishness and love that I‘ll never be able to put into words. His laughter lit the whole town with electricity. His stomach shook like Santa’s. Oh my God—and when he ate, he made funny sounds with his mouth that sounded like, well, for lack of a less lady-like term…like…farting.

Grandpa at the dining room table in his stained big man’s t-shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, laughing and shouting and whooping it up at hearing aid decibels would make sure we had plenty to eat on our plates and giggle about.

“Pass the gravy!” he’d shout in his way — that certain loud, excitable way that many other first and second-generation aunts, uncles, and grandparents from the Polish and German sections of New York factory towns spoke.

But followed by a mouth fart.

Not a burp, mind you. It was like a tick of some kind…where you blow through your mouth and make your lips vibrate until you deliver the music of choice. Granted, it wasn’t intentional. I think it had to do with his false teeth slipping out, which was another massive treat that I loved, loved, loved.

“Pass the butter — pfftttfffhhhhhhttt.”

It would simply send peals of laughter out of my brother and me, who were no more than just a couple of very young, innocent — and obviously super mature — buffoon children who loved him with all of our hearts and souls.

“Now take your teeth out, Grandpa!” we’d squeal. And with twinkling eyes, he’d oblige.

He was everything. And from the time I was a toddler, that man had a very special place in my heart.

A pig-tailed little girl walks up to the large figure lounging in the corner chair, her shadow outlined before him. She looks up in admiration with big brown saucer eyes and a toothless smile.

His arms reach out to her, and without words, he urges her to jump up into his chair — knowing fully well she would start to push all the different buzzy buttons on the recliner, and ask him excitedly to take his teeth in and out.

Maybe, or maybe not, knowing that when he hugged her tight, like a big black bear with no words, that his overflowing unconditional love might bring her to tears like it sometimes would. She didn’t know or understand at the time why she would cry when all he did was make her feel so happy, so loved — so unquestioned, and so safe. She knew he would never hurt her nor put her in harm’s way. He was as gentle as they come, yet he was also fiercely protective of those he loved. Like a big black bear. Not unlike the kind he would often talk about coming across during his hunting trips, not unlike the kind that might just walk across your backyard one night in Saranac Lake. For his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his family, dear friends, he would fight — like a big black bear.

Thunder and lightning rolled in quickly; this happened often during the Adirondack summers.

He took the girl’s trembling hand and led her out onto the covered front porch. It was a quiet moment.

“Don’t be scared, Kristi!” he shouted.

(Yes, it was a quiet moment, but remember, there was that hearing aid loud booming voice issue.)

Grandfather and child sat down on the rockers and together counted the seconds between the lightning and thunder until the storm rolled out. And it made it okay. And it became their thing; whenever there was a storm, Grandpa and the pig-tailed little girl would head straight for the porch to count the seconds, despite her odd paranoia that a lightning bolt was going to hit her in the ass.

When he died, a part of me died too.

I mourned the fact that I had lost this ability to be better at reaching out to people I loved. That I hadn’t visited my home, or my family in the Adirondacks more. I mourned that my unborn son would not get to know my amazing grandfather and love him so infinitely the way that I did. To be able to hear his infectious laughter, the boom of his voice, or weep tears of joy away from the feeling of pure love when he bear-hugged you.

At his funeral, they asked if anyone would like to say anything. In an unlikely move, I jumped right up. Not knowing what I would say, but also knowing everything I could say.

I was heartbroken and didn’t want to let go. I had to say something. So I opened my heart and spoke.

He was everything. He was joy. He was inspiration. He was comfort. He was love.

Even in his big grandpa panties and stained t-shirt, he was all of this and more. Plus he made the mouth fart noises at the table. (The last part I savored only for my own personal inner monologue.)

When I spoke of him, I recalled how he and I would go out for donuts in the morning for breakfast and always get secret ones for ourselves. We’d pull over to the side of the road to eat all of our special favorites before heading home. We thought we were so sneaky and giggled like maniacs.

And that spot of time? It belonged to us. And it still belongs to me.

When I told this story at his funeral to our close family and friends, I suddenly realized that he was creating that time with me, creating a lifelong bond that I would never forget even once he was gone. It wasn’t about the donuts at all. It was about creating our spots of time together.

I sobbed as I imagined one last bear hug. But he wasn’t there. His body was in the room, but his life was not. There was no mistaking when my grandfather was present. He was bigger than life, he would light a room so bright with the glow of his personality. But the room was not glowing with him. It just felt empty.

How I wish I could have been there to say goodbye.

And tell him that I loved him.

To not be afraid.

That dirty four-letter word: fear.

Fear has kept me from living my life. From all aspects of life. From the corners of life that I should have enjoyed, prospered in, shared, and not spent crying away under the darkness and solitude of the warmth of my blankets.

I think the deeper I loved, or the more I wanted something, the more fear paralyzed me. I feared my potential future mistakes and failures as deeply as I rued the past ones I’d already experienced. I was always afraid of being in the same exact spot year after year, still too frozen with fear. Afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to live. Afraid I wouldn’t succeed, afraid if happiness knocked on my door, it would only leave.

If Grandpa Daniels was alive today, I’d take a little trip to see him.

I’d show up bright and early and insist on making him and Grandma brunch just so I could whip up a big batch of pancakes. We loved our pancake eatin’ contests!

Then, I’d love to take his hand and walk out on the front porch and sit in the rocking chairs where we would count off the seconds between the thunder and lightning. And this would be my chance to tell him the things that I can so easily express when I write but am a complete imbecile about when it comes to actually saying to someone’s face.

I would tell him how much I have missed him, how much of an impact he has had on my life, and how much I love him and think about him. All the time. All the time. About how I can still hear his laughter and sometimes that’s all I have to do to sometimes cheer myself up.

I would walk him back up to his lounge chair, and stand in front of him, the shadow of a pigtailed girl — and he would stretch his arms out to me and give me a big bear hug. The kind that would bring me to tears. But this time, I stand back a bit, and I realize that such a hug — perhaps the pure hug from the love of a young child — sometimes brought him to tears as well.

I never knew.

I don’t want to lose this magic with anyone in my life. Each person has their own special place, we touch each other in different ways, and somehow I have to find my way back home. Even without going home.

I love and have been loved. It’s the people I miss, as well as the girl in myself that I left behind.

So, I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have a wonderful family, beautiful kids, and the spirit of all those who have touched my life to give me strength. Besides, the girl really is a fighter. She’s got a bit o’ the lumberjack in her and a hunger to go out and attack her fear.

Like a big black bear.

People come and go in our lives. But it doesn’t mean they’re gone. For me, they all become a part of my written world, my history, my stories, some fictionalized, some not. Crafted just so. But all very important pieces to me, significant parts, the laughter and tears, and the breath…in my life.

“There are places I’ll remember All my life though some have changed Some forever not for better Some have gone and some remain All these places had their moments With lovers and friends I still can recall Some are dead and some are living In my life I’ve loved them all.” —In My Life, The Beatles