While I was far away trying to get my life back on track, the family I had back home was dealing with problems of their own. Chief among them was my maternal grandfather’s deteriorating health. He had a stroke several years prior, and was already far from the picture of good health. He smoked for much of his life, had a rough-and-tumble childhood that makes mine look idyllic, and had diabetes for decades. He ate well in retirement, all things considered—but age gets us all sooner or later. In his case, the stroke knocked the proverbial wind out of him, and once he was largely bedridden he never recovered. I stayed with my father for eight months in total, but for a week I flew down to Florida where my mother and uncle were on vacation, with my grandfather in tow. He was still lucid more often than not then, and it was a way for them both to get a break—for my mother, from her job. For my uncle, from constantly taking care of my grandfather, which he had done since he started falling ill. Even before that, he took care of both him and my grandmother since 2000 full-time.
The reason I flew down was ostensibly to have a break, and continue a family tradition of trips to Florida. The actual reason was so I could look after my grandfather so my mother and uncle could actually have just a few days where they could relax. I had done it before; I knew the motions and what to do. I’m a natural homebody anyhow, so I could easily be around to take care of him.
A couple weeks earlier, my other grandfather died. I’ve had three in fact, one I never met because he passed away decades before I was born. It’s a whole thing, but I wasn’t able to attend the funeral for one because I had to go take care of the other. I felt terrible about it, even though the recently departed grandfather’s daughter fully understood. I wasn’t ready to confront the fading mortality of my still-living grandfather, but I did what I had to do. I tried to help him keep his dignity as best as I could, holding my nose as I dove in to a glimpse of what my uncle had to do day in, day out. Nursing homes weren’t an option; too many horror stories. Part of what gave me strength to face moving back home was knowing that in some small way I could help take care of my grandfather—fill in when my uncle needed a break, or just be the extra pair of hands that can come over when needed. I like to be useful, to know I’ve got some purpose beyond propagating my own existence. Taking care of the man who taught me so many things about cars, about technology and life in general as I grew up was the least I could do. I would’ve even been open to living with them both at their home so I could help more, but my family’s a very stubborn one. It’s impossible to convince them of anything they don’t see the need for, or that would ‘mess things up.’
Still, I wanted to help, and that made moving back home easier. When I got back in August, I decided I’d start university again in the spring. I could’ve rushed to start in the fall, but I knew myself well enough by then to understand that would lead to spinning out at the starting line. Instead, I amped up the search for freelance work so I could at least pay for my own groceries and gas, then took some time to figure out how I could survive being here until graduation. Mental health was paramount. I reorganized the room, did my best to let some meager amount of natural light in, and scaled back on the video games a little bit.
I know that seems sudden, like I’m skipping over the realizations, revelations and mental shifts to go from ‘one step above a NEET’ to where I was at that point. The truth is, I don’t know how I got back on track. It must have been some combination of events that made my mind adjust, so that I wasn’t as bothered by being back home. Sorry Bobrov, if you were reading this for some insight on how someone comes back from total ineptitude then I’ve got no advice but this: I sure as shit didn’t do it alone.
