George Hammer, the Devil, and Pete Kevilus.

My Grandpa Hammer passed away this weekend. He had lung cancer, and was doing very badly for a while, so this was not unexpected. He smoked two packs of Camels a day for most of his life, so the lung cancer itself wasn't even unexpected. For the first few minutes after my mom told me the news I felt...nothing. Then I shed some tears and felt sad. Now I am left with a feeling that I never would have expected: confusion. I have no idea how to mourn my grandfather's death.
It's not like when my great-grandma died. It was just a few years ago, but I had only met her a half-dozen times in my life. "That's so sad." I spoke my sadness rather than felt any and continued on with my life.
Nor is this like when my maternal grandmother died. I was just thirteen. I cried hysterically, comforted my brother who was crying even more hysterically, and looking at my mom's and grandpa's faces, I thought "Nothing will ever be the same." Nothing ever was.
But with my grandpa's death, I have to think about what will be different. No one will show up to family functions an hour late, carrying either cheap alcohol or greasy food. I will get $20 less every Christmas. There will only be one grandpa sleeping in front of the TV instead of two. When people hear he has died, they ask me if we were close, and I don't know how to answer that. Close, as in confidantes, as in a wise grandfather who taught me valuable life lessons? No. But growing up he lived just two miles away from us. I saw him at least once a week. I guess I knew him pretty well and it turns out I actually really liked him.
But what about my mom? Was she "close" to him? I'd say yes, even if she seems to have had the same relationship with him as I did. For the last few months of his life, he lived with my parents. My mom shuttled him back and forth to doctor's appointments. She got him in and out of bed when he needed help. Before all this, she still spoke to him once or twice a week, still gossiped with my aunt about his antics. She remembered his birthday, asked him out to go shopping or to the movies, even when he drove her nuts.
I wasn't sure whether or not to go to the funeral. It's a lot of time, a lot of money, time off work, hassle. All for a grandpa I can't even decide whether or not I was "close" to. Then I saw that my mom might spend Mother's Day at her dad's funeral--with neither of her children there and I decided that I had to go. Because, after all, funerals are not for the dead, but for the living. They are so that those left behind can be comforted by how many people they still have around them. I want to be one of those people. I want to hug my mom and my dad and my uncle and my cousins and cry over that gruff old tavern-owner who gave me lollies and always let me turn up his jukebox when Roxette came on. I am going to miss him.