Grandfather

Pain. I'm counting the seconds until the pain stops. Of course, it's pretty much useless because I'm counting up, not down, since I have no idea how long this is going to take.

When I was training for a boxing competition, and I was sore and aching, my grandfather always said, "Pain is weakness leaving the body." If this were the kind of pain he meant, I would be the biggest weakling on the planet. I'm pretty sure this is the kind of pain that just hurts, rather than the kind that makes me strong.

Knowing what was coming, I could barely eat this morning. The food (eggs and buttered toast) may as well have been ash for all I tasted it. I knew it was a requirement that I eat, so I all but shoved the food down my throat, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. If I was nauseous before eating, and even more so after, it was nothing compared to what I feel now.

The pain I'm feeling isn't just physical; it's mental, emotional, psychological. The scars from the overwhelming grief I feel will never fade, never even fully heal. At least the physical pain is ephemeral; but my heart, mind, and soul will always be wounded and mangled, broken and bleeding.

I try to block out how much it hurts, planning out what I'm going to do with the rest of my day as a distraction. I know I need to do some grocery shopping. Protein powder, bananas, apples, this isn't working. I'm fighting back tears at this point.

After 600 seconds, something inside me shifts. A fledgling of an idea strikes me like the first rain drop of a torrential storm. It grows as I remember another of my grandfather's sayings from when he trained me: "Enjoy your pain; you've earned it." Perhaps this pain will help me heal, like a baptism in fire. A crucible of sorts. Maybe it will fill a tiny part of the hole that was left by my grandfather's passing. I embrace the pain, allow it to fill every corner of my mind, seep into every fiber of my being.

The nausea begins to fade as I will myself to enjoy the agony with the same savagery and ferocity I bring to my fights. My grandfather would be proud. I'm no masochist, but if I can survive five rounds of someone with fifteen pounds on me repeatedly punching me in the face and come back for more with a cocky grin, then I can plaster a smile on my face for this.

After 1,200 seconds, I get another idea: stop using the physical pain as just another distraction from the real pain; my loss. Mentally, I poke at my grief with a stick. It roars like a rabid beast, threatening to consume me, furious at having been ignored for so long.

I never really dealt with my grandfather's death. I never processed it. I simply went through the motions; train, eat, sleep, repeat. I did fight after fight, too. I fought better than I ever had, and I hated myself for it.

"Why couldn't you fight this well when he was alive?" I would demand of myself. "Why did it take him dying for you to fight like this?" I had no answers.

I start crying silently, tears simply spilling down my face as I make no effort to stop them. I wish I weren't in public right now. I want to scream, collapse into sobs, howl and moan like the wounded, feral thing I have become.

They say that anger is one of the stages of grieving. I can certainly attest to that. I'm so enraged at myself and at the other driver. I relive the moment of the crash that killed my grandfather every time I fall asleep: it was a foggy night and visibility was low. I saw the other car on the wrong side of the road, barreling toward us. I swerved toward the middle of the road at the same time he did. We crashed into each other. I was basically fine. The other driver was basically fine. My grandfather was basically dead. He cracked his head against the window, and due to the blood-thinners he took, he bled out before the paramedics arrived. He was pronounced dead at the scene. I held his hand as he slipped away, begging him to hold on just a little longer, to keep fighting, to please, please stay with me. After I knew he was gone, I was numb. The paramedics called it shock. They said that it would wear off. Until this very moment, it hadn't.

In this moment though, losing my cool in front of strangers, crying my eyes out, my chest on fire, I finally start to acknowledge that maybe there was nothing I could have done. Around 1,700 seconds, I feel some of my deep-seated self loathing begin to diminish.

My lips are quivering and I'm still weeping, but other than that, I am like a statue. I came here with a purpose and I won't risk screwing it up now.

Though I continue to follow my grandfather's words of wisdom and find enjoyment in the pain I'm enduring, I can't do it with the sheer suffering I feel from losing him. Or... can I?

I start to think about every precious, cherished moment I spent with him. At about 2,100 seconds, I feel true happiness for the first time since his death. I remember when I was finally able to bench press 100 pounds. The pride on his face is still seared into my memory. I remember telling him about my first crush, and later, my first girlfriend. He was beside himself with joy both times. I remember his last words to me; "You keep rising. No matter who or what tries to keep you down, you rise. You hear me?" I swore I would.

At 2,366 seconds, the pain recedes as the buzzing of the tattoo gun stops.

"Is it done?" I ask the artist.

"See for yourself," he replies. "There's a mirror at the end of the hall."

I gingerly sit up and wipe my eyes. I get off of the table and walk down the short hallway. There it is. Over my heart and in ink mixed with my grandfather's ashes, the thing I've been waiting for: a black and red phoenix with a single word over it: "Rise."

I walk back to the artist and tell him how much I love it. I pay him 300 dollars.

"You know that's a 100 dollar tip, right?" He questions incredulously.

"Yup," I answer.

"Thanks, Francesca," he replies sincerely. I nod with a small smile.

"No fighting for two weeks, but when you get back out there, you kill it, girl."

"You know it," I say smugly. I'm not alright yet. This tattoo didn't solve everything, but I think it was a good start.