Don't Eat the Doughnuts

Revision plan: After my first draft, it seemed that people appreciated the honest approach that I took. This is something that I wanted to try to keep. However, there were some things that I wanted to alter. After looking at many other people's posts and talking to Professor Burton, I realized that where I was writing was a very commonly used niche, that of a child's first encounter with death, specifically of a grandparent. To find a different angle, I wanted to focus more on the characterization of my Grandfather. To keep things somewhat lighthearted, I felt a contrast with my Grandpa's current wife would help provide some humor. Finally, in relating my essay to the Book of Mormon, I wanted to move away from citing specific doctrines, and instead find themes from the Book of Mormon to relate to.

“We will be taking off from Fort Lauderdale for four days, and then we will be going to visit my daughter and to meet my new son-in-law.” Donna glibly blabbed, going on to say “Her husband has a large ranch, and they travel a lot, in fact I think she has found herself a ‘Howard’, if you know what I mean!” The ‘Howard’ she alluded to was my Grandpa, and if I hadn’t already become accustomed to my step-Grandma’s idiosyncrasies I would have been shocked to hear any Grandma talk about herself as a gold digger so openly.  I never have known what to call her, as she sticks out like a bit of a sore thumb in our family and isn’t actually my Grandma. So I go back and forth between calling her Donna and Grandma, at times even referring to her as “Don-ma” behind her back to siblings or cousins. I don’t think of her as a gold digger, and she surely had a heart of gold, but if ever there were a couple that is unequally yoked it is them.

In a way my Grandpa probably has enough education for both of them. He has four university degrees, including a PHD from Stanford, while Donna only managed to squeak through high school. Donna is shamelessly extroverted, while my Grandfather is calm and measured. When he talks it is often slow and quiet, especially in recent years, as he just turned 90. In a way, Don-ma is his perfect foil, as she has energy to spare and keeps him busy. They spend their time alternately traveling the world, playing bingo at the senior center, and unloading stale food (that they win playing bingo) on their family. Today they were proffering up a dozen doughnuts that had expired several months earlier, which we were assured had been frozen and were still edible, and perhaps even tolerable. I had my doubts, as I had heard that story before.

One of Donma's dubious doughnuts

My parents were the likely victims of the questionable doughnuts, and we continued talking as we drove to visit them. The topic turned to my actual Grandma, as my niece Julia had recently been named after her. My Grandpa often stumbled on his words as he spoke, his once clear mind clouded with cobwebs. But when he began to recall my grandmother, his beloved companion of more than half a century, he was able to express himself with precision.

He told of the last moments he had with his wife, something I had never heard him speak about before. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and they had just finished a dinner of mac-and-cheese. I could see them eating in my minds eye. Surely my Grandma only ate a bite or two, and the rest of her meal would have been made up of a half a cup or so of Ensure, or as much as my Grandpa could coax her into drinking. The last years of her life she always was slurping at Ensure, with the beads of yellow liquid dried to her cracked lips.

My Grandma had been in a wheelchair for several years, and so after dinner he wheeled her to the living room to watch the evening news. After a few minutes, Julia said that there was nothing else she was interested in seeing and she wasn’t feeling well, so she wanted to go to bed. My Grandpa told her that was fine, and he would put her to bed, but that there was a ball game that he wanted to see the score of before he went to bed.  Those were the final words that he would speak to her in this life. He gently lifted her from her wheelchair, even though he was close go eighty years old himself, and carried her to their bedroom. After getting her into bed, he went back to watching the news. The next morning, my Grandma was comatose and unresponsive, though still breathing, and my Grandpa took her to the hospital.

“Did you know that was going to be the end?” I asked my Grandpa, curious at what point he had known. He indicated that the doctors told him there was still a chance, but he had been worried. He looked at me as he spoke, and his wistful steely blue eyes looked through me into what now seemed a not-so-distant past.

As my grandfather talked, I reflected on another elderly man, who lived centuries earlier, in ancient America. His name was Jacob, a prophet from the Book of Mormon, and as he grew old, he expressed that his life had passed away as if it were a dream, as his people became lonesome and solemn and they mourned out their days. Many years latter, a Book of Mormon missionary, Ammon, blessed the name of God for having been mindful of him when he was a wanderer in a strange land. I mused on this theme from the Book of Mormon, and how we truly are travelers that pass through this brief existence.

“I should have known to cancel Aunt Noreen’s family dinner.” I was abruptly brought back to the conversation as my Grandpa remembered his train of thought. After my Grandma was admitted to the hospital, he went back and forth between her bedside and preparing for a family dinner where he would have the opportunity to be with many of his grandchildren. At around four in the afternoon, he got a phone call from my Uncle, who merely said, “Come quickly.” By the time he arrived his dear companion had already breathed her last breath.

My Grandpa began trailing off, and I noticed that Donna had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past several minutes. I wondered if she would launch into a story about how her husband had died, as she was a widow before they had gotten married. I seemed to remember having heard it before, and it involved a car accident. As I recalled, she told it in a very gruesome and straightforward fashion, and especially considering I didn’t have any connection to him, I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing it again.

So I was happy to hear her start along another vein of thought entirely “Now, Clark, what is your sister doing with her life? Is she just living at home with your parents, and not in college? I just want to know so I don’t say anything wrong.” I chuckled to myself about how ironic her statement was. That was the Donna I knew and loved, so brash and improper, yet genuinely loving. I started to explain that my sister had moved back home after two years at USU, and she was going to take some classes at the community college. As I explained, my mind mulled over the lesson I had just learned about the brevity of our lives, and I treasured the lesson my Grandpa had just taught me, whether intentional or not.

Live With Gusto

Monday through Friday, during the 2009-2010 and 2010-2011 school years, at 7:30am I would walk into a classroom filled with other high schoolers of all ages. Sister Rogers would sit in the middle of the long line of tables, with her large print scriptures, each verse highlited in a different color that I’m sure meant something to her. The room was always filled with shining happy faces. We were the lucky 7:30 class, which starkly contrasts with the emotion filling my 5:45 class the two following school years. Of course there were some faces with the clear distain for their parents forcing them to come that morning, but the smiles from the other students of the class typically drowned out the dreariness emanating from those few rebellious bodies.

One smile in particular always shined brightly, even though you wouldn’t expect it. His name was Jared. He was a year older than me, had shaggy brown hair, spoke American Sign Language, and always had a friendly demeanor.

I remember in particular the days that we would play competitive games in seminary, scripture chases were the most common element in these games, he would get so involved in these that you just had to smile at his enthusiasm and team support. He turned out to be a great friend of mine.

My sophomore year things changed. I was at a leadership workshop when I received a text, “Did Jared’s Mom really die?” I wasn’t at school, so I was filled with shock and didn’t know if this was true or just a rumor going around that day. When I arrived back at school that afternoon I found out that it had not been a rumor and that she was gone. It was at this time that I saw a change in Jared. He obviously was overtaken by sadness and remorse for the immediate period after her death, but as he came out of those emotions, he was more compassionate, he had more love in his eyes for those around him. His cheery disposition returned and we spent the rest of the year laughing through seminary and learning from Sister Rogers.

I was filled with sadness when it was announced that the 7:30 class would be canceled and I would have to go to a seminary with a different group of people for my last two years of high school. I would still see the members of my prier seminary class in school though, so I would be alright. However, I came to find out that Jared and his family would be moving to Arizona, so I would no longer see him at school. I was sad as he walked out of my life and the joyous spirit he always brought left our school community.

Life went on though. I had other friends who brought true joy and happiness to my life. I did miss Jared, but I saw he was doing well in Arizona; I was happy for him.

But one day it all changed.

Facebook posts started surfacing on his wall “I can’t believe you’re gone.” I read through them and froze in complete and utter fear. Was he really gone? He was a senior in high school, preparing to serve the Lord on a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I was in denial. I’m sure this was how King Limhi’s wife felt when she was told her husband was dead “The servants of my husband have made it known unto me that thou art a prophet of a holy God, and that thou hast power to do many mighty works in his name. Therefore, if this is the case, I would that ye should go in and see my husband, for he has been laid upon his bed for the space of two days and two nights; and some say that he is not dead, but others say that he is dead and that he stinketh and that he ought to be placed in the sepulcher but as for myself, to me he doth not stink." Alma 19:4-5 It was a time of complete confusion. I didn’t know what was true and if he was really gone. But, there was no way Jared could be gone just like that. I couldn’t come to accept it until his brother posted that it was true. He really was gone.

I cried. I felt empty. I didn’t know how someone so full of life could be gone in an instant. He hadn’t even graduated high school yet.

It was at his funeral that I had a “wilderness experience.” I sat holding the hand of one my friends, weeping for the life that was lost. I listened to the people who spoke of him and looked around at the hundreds of people that filled the room to support his family and to celebrate his life. We all sang “We’ll Bring the World His Truth” and I realized that in his short life he had effected so many people, he had accomplished so much, he had made such a difference. We don’t know the span of our life or the lives of those around us, but that doesn't mean we should live in fear of it being cut short. We should live as Jared did, with a smile on our face and with all the gusto we can muster.