A Real Man
My wife's grandfather had taken seriously ill while we were pregnant. I'd never met him, but had heard all about him from her. He was a man's man: beefy, rugged, and intellectual. A rancher, farmer, builder, businessman, and philosopher. Macho, yes, but not in the sense of base, mindless masculinity. Apparently this man could walk on water.
His wife had called us shortly before the birth, begging us to come as quickly as possible. An impossible request in the circumstances. It was a very long trip, and pregnancy disagreed with Irene enough that it was simply unthinkable. "We'll come as soon as we can after the baby is born." "He doesn't have much time."
Our daughter was two months old before we made the trip.
He wanted to die in his own house, where he had spent his entire life. His deathbed was set up in the living room. I laid my eyes on the Great Man, but couldn't see any sign of the greatness. Laying in the bed was a frail and used-up skeleton. His eyes were glazed and he seemed not to recognize what was going on around him. Irene took his hand, kissed him, and then left the room to cry.
I pretended that he was lucid, introduced myself, and placed our daughter on his chest. His mouth twitched -- I knew it would have been a smile under other circumstances. With great effort, He lifted one arm and placed his hand on our baby's head. The love poured from him, almost visible in its intensity. I recognized instantly the gift he had been saving for her. Nobody had mentioned that he was a shaman, but somehow it didn't really surprise me.
Although he had a hospice worker, she only came by every other day for a couple of hours. His wife had been caring for him all by herself for all these months. We took turns watching after him, to give her a badly needed break.
During my second shift, I was holding his hand and telling him stories about Irene and the little one. He showed no sign that he heard me, but it seemed natural to do. I was nearing the end of a story when it happened. A pulse of energy burst from his body and, in part, coursed through my own. I saw his jugular bulge. He was dead.
His wife came in from outside minutes later. "He's gone," I said. She smiled. "I knew it would come quick. He wasn't going to die until he met his great-granddaughter. It was his final wish."
That's how I met a Real Man and learned what it means to be one. A man so full of love that he held death itself at bay just so he could pass it along to the next generation.
His wife had called us shortly before the birth, begging us to come as quickly as possible. An impossible request in the circumstances. It was a very long trip, and pregnancy disagreed with Irene enough that it was simply unthinkable. "We'll come as soon as we can after the baby is born." "He doesn't have much time."
Our daughter was two months old before we made the trip.
He wanted to die in his own house, where he had spent his entire life. His deathbed was set up in the living room. I laid my eyes on the Great Man, but couldn't see any sign of the greatness. Laying in the bed was a frail and used-up skeleton. His eyes were glazed and he seemed not to recognize what was going on around him. Irene took his hand, kissed him, and then left the room to cry.
I pretended that he was lucid, introduced myself, and placed our daughter on his chest. His mouth twitched -- I knew it would have been a smile under other circumstances. With great effort, He lifted one arm and placed his hand on our baby's head. The love poured from him, almost visible in its intensity. I recognized instantly the gift he had been saving for her. Nobody had mentioned that he was a shaman, but somehow it didn't really surprise me.
Although he had a hospice worker, she only came by every other day for a couple of hours. His wife had been caring for him all by herself for all these months. We took turns watching after him, to give her a badly needed break.
During my second shift, I was holding his hand and telling him stories about Irene and the little one. He showed no sign that he heard me, but it seemed natural to do. I was nearing the end of a story when it happened. A pulse of energy burst from his body and, in part, coursed through my own. I saw his jugular bulge. He was dead.
His wife came in from outside minutes later. "He's gone," I said. She smiled. "I knew it would come quick. He wasn't going to die until he met his great-granddaughter. It was his final wish."
That's how I met a Real Man and learned what it means to be one. A man so full of love that he held death itself at bay just so he could pass it along to the next generation.
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