The first funeral I attended taught me the fragility of life, to cherish my life every day, and that one’s presence is truly present enough because one does not know when it will end. On the sixteenth of February 2003, I attended my Grandpa’s funeral. He, Vasili, was an immigrant to this country. In 1939, he left behind 12 brothers and sisters and both his mother and father, who specifically told him to flee, as Germany began to invade Poland in the beginning of WW2. In both the Ukraine and Germany, he studied to be a veterinarian but his degrees did not uphold in this country, in order to practice veterinary medicine. Also, his English was not without heavy accent, nor grammatically correct, and always over pronounced. This did not help his job prospectus. English was the last of seven languages he acquired throughout his lifetime, including Russian, Ukrainian, German, Polish, Czechoslovakian and Latin.
He was a no nonsense man. My fondest memory of him was the way he taught me to blow my nose correctly. Grandpa did well for himself overall, despite his difficult circumstances, which is why I revere him. I have always respected him not only for his intellect and discipline but also because he basically reincarnated himself, began a new life, all alone in New York.
Accompanied by my Grandma and my father’s brother’s family, he moved from New York to Seattle, then San Francisco, where he passed away. He suffered a severe stroke and several years later died peacefully in his sleep. The first mumbling utterance of his mouth, post-incident, was my full first name, Alexandra. This always made me feel connected to him, in a very special, almost spiritual, way. I still can recall the feeling I discovered when I found out that information. I feel I would do it injustice to even attempt trying to communicate something so indescribable. I was his first conscious concern and his first grandchild.
My immediate family and I flew out to San Francisco for his funeral, although his remains are buried in New Jersey, along with many ancestors, all of whom I never knew in this lifetime. My Grandpa’s funeral was my first funeral, as I declined to attend my Nana’s funeral, which was held at the church directly across the street from my first school, because I really did not want to miss class. At such a naïve age, I did not comprehend the greater significance of these types of events and still regret to this day that choice. A funeral is the one last opportunity to see one’s face in person, the last chance to celebrate and remember one’s life surrounded by people he or she knew, each person having a different perspective on the deceased.
During the solemn ceremony, I vividly recall approaching my grandfather’s casket, prostrating, and kissing the center of his forehead. Something within me changed. I felt an immediate uncharacteristically overwhelming explosion of emotion, which I had never experienced. Instantaneously, after removing my lips from his cold skin, I began to cry. I cried on that day. Oh boy, did I ball. I could not stop. It was incredibly loud but not disruptive. The tears were steaming so smoothly down my face, I couldn’t even see out of my own eyeballs, or wipe the river away from my face fast enough. I crossed myself several times while walking away from the casket, staring down at the tan floor. I could not even acknowledge anyone, especially in the eye. I turned to face the altar, perpendicular to Grandpa’s casket, just like I was taught, still balling. I had never felt that type of uncontrollable discomfort and could not keep it together to save my life. The old women gave me relatively consoling looks like I was the most depressing thing they had ever seen considering their stature in life. I was so young and so miserable.
I relate the loss of Grandpa to the loss of Columbia, NASA’s space shuttle. Approximately two weeks prior to Vasili’s death, seven astronauts were killed in the bizarrely unclear explosion of an American space shuttle. Neither the pieces of my grandfather’s life or the ridiculous governmental problems that led to the demise of Columbia are ever going to be able to be pieced together precisely. The occupation of Poland is similar to the administrative problems of NASA. Much of the documentation was destroyed or appears never have existed, but the lives involved will be cherished, remembered, respected, and revered by friends, fans and family. The uncertainty of when one’s life is going to end will forever preside for all of humankind, regardless of what he or she accomplished during his or her lifetime. It is not a choice; it is inevitable.