The Demise of Sock Monster

It came to my attention the other day that I had not seen him around for quite some time.  I began wondering why he had disappeared.  After all he had been a constant companion on my “grandpa” journey for over a decade . . . then he was gone.  Vanished.  Ka-put.  Gone.  Sadly, I wondered what had happened to my buddy, my partner in crime . . . this sudden demise of Sock Monster. 

The birth of our first grandchild saw the creation of the sock monster.  My companion was not the first of its kind.  No, sock monsters have been around for generations. Probably since the inception of humans wearing socks.  I imagine some adult was tasked with having to watch a crying, screaming baby.  Flustered with the rambunctious child, the adult grabbed a sock lying on the floor, slipped it over his hand, and waved it before the child in a desperate and playful gesture while speaking gibberish.  The child—shocked—quit crying.  The sock monster was born and has been entertaining children ever since . . .

 

. . . quite effectively I might add.

 

At least my sock monster did.  From the beginning, Sock Monster was a big hit with the grandkids.  He elicited laughter . . . giggles . . . and lots of joyful, silly conversation and antics.  He was an anticipated arrival, always popping up when least expected . . . but always welcomed.  He was silly.  Told the worse jokes (dad jokes).  Was always trying to steal a kiss or to tickle the unsuspecting.  The playfulness went on for years . . . over a decade much to the delight of the grandchildren and me.

 

Then one day . . . it was over.  Now I am not an overly sentimental person, but the demise of Sock Monster tugged at the ol’ heart strings.  He was a part of me.  He hung around with me. He was right there . . . beside me.  He understood me and was a major part of helping me fulfill my role as a grandpa.  I kind of miss him.  Even now I can feel a tear wanting to fall.

 

But I understand.  It wasn’t anything he did.  There wasn’t anything that either of us could have done.  It was inevitable.  A part of life . . . a part of growing up.  That was the culprit.  Grandchildren grow up and get older.  With it comes maturity no longer needing the whimsical fantasy of imagination.  There is the fading of those imaginary characters who fill the gaps in a young child’s heart and mind.  All children, including grandchildren, eventually put away their childish toys and ways.  It is only natural.  Sock Monster never had a chance.

 

The signs were there.  Either I missed them or chose to ignore them.  When the youngest two grandchildren no longer squealed with excitement when Sock Monster appeared. . . I should have known.  When they rolled their eyes upon his sudden arrival . . . I should have known.  I should have known, yet at the same time I suppose I wasn’t ready.  Wasn’t ready to let go.  Wasn’t ready to grow up . . . to put away the silliness . . . the tickling . . . the laughter.  With a “oh, Papa”, Sock Monster was eulogized and put to rest.  It was an unspoken “rest in peace”.

 

I understand.  I marvel whenever I am in the presence of my grandchildren.  They are growing and maturing faster than I or the parents want.  They are becoming human beings.  They are exploring what it means to be older and mature.  Moving further down the journey of life.  In that they are leaving behind that which they deem is childish.  That includes Sock Monster.

 

I get it . . . but it doesn’t mean I won’t acknowledge and mourn the demise of Sock Monster.  Sock Monster was a part of me as a grandparent . . . as a grandchild.  For my grandchildren and I, Sock Monster may have been laid to rest, but I don’t think he is gone.  No, I imagine that down the road, when my grandchildren start having their own children, that there will be a revival and rebirth of Sock Monster.  There are always finicky, rambunctious, crying children needing respite and relief . . . needing entertained.  In those moments they will remember . . . Sock Monster!  And the story will continue as it has for generations.

 

Passing it On

We have another one on the way . . . grandchild, that is.  The due date is in early July.  The family is growing.  The youngest son and his wife are getting into the mix with their expected child.  Both the wife and I are really excited to welcome another child into the fold . . . especially as grandparents.  Grandparents get all the fun and then get to send the grandkids home at the end of the day!  The whole family is excited . . . especially my daughter as her daughters will have an actual cousin . . . something she and her siblings never experienced.  Let’s just say there is excitement in the air.

When the youngest announced that he and our daughter-in-law were expecting on social media he used the hashtag: #KeenersLiveOn.  Of course this is a reference to the fact that the child they are expecting is going to be a boy . . . a male heir . . . and, the “Keener” surname will live on for another generation.  After a couple of granddaughters this will be the first grandson.  Kind of cool.

Now we live in different times.  When the wife and I were expectant parents it was rare and unusual to know the sex of the unborn child before his or her making a screaming appearance in the delivery room . . . nothing was known until the medical team checked out all the equipment and made the announcement.  As expectant parents the wife and I played a guessing game based on myths and stories about determining the sex of a child before birth.  Trust me . . . it didn’t work.  In today’s age it is only a matter of using science and really high-powered technological devices to find out the sex of a child before he or she is born.  Our son and daughter-in-law were told the sex of their unborn child shortly after the first trimester.  There was no guessing . . . one glimpse and they knew . . . it was a boy.

When our first child was born a little over three decades ago we had to wait until that revealing moment there in the delivery room to learn that we were the proud parents of a boy.  We were quite ecstatic . . . our parents were excited by the news . . . even my grandfather on my father’s side was pumped.  He even called.  My grandfather never called . . . ever.  It was the first and last phone call I ever received from my grandfather.  One short conversation that consisted of a simple question: “Well, what is it?”

My grandfather, on my father’s side, had three children born to him and my grandmother . . . three girls and one boy.  That one male was my father.  On my father laid the mantle of providing an heir to pass on the Keener surname . . . which of course, meant that he would have to have male children to accomplish the task.  It was the only way to carry on the Keener name for another generation.  This he accomplished when he and my mother had four children . . . three boys and one girl.

Between my siblings and me I was the only one who got married and had children.  The burden of carrying on the Keener name fell upon me.  Like my father before me there were four children born to my wife and I . . . three boys and one girl.  It so happened that our first-born was a boy.

When I got home from the hospital the night that our first son was born, the phone rang.  As usual, I answered, “Keeners!”  From the other end of the line came the question . . . no greeting . . . no identifying who was calling . . . just a question, “Well, what was it?”  Caught off guard, I answered, “A boy.”  Click . . . the line went dead.  Only later, after talking to my father and mother, did I learn that it was my grandfather, my father’s father.  Without even realizing it I had accomplished the task . . . the Keener surname would live for another generation.

My father explained that it was important to my grandfather that the Keener surname be carried on . . . that the name did not die.  Growing up I had very little contact with my grandparents, thus there was not what I would call a real intimate relationship there.  As an adult I can only remember his presence in my childhood twice . . . once at his place and once at ours . . . and, they were short visits.  As an adult the wife and I took our first two born children to visit them for two days.  Growing up there were no phone calls . . . no letters.  Thus it was quite a shock to get a call from him on the eve of our first-born son.  Apparently I did well . . . I accomplished the job . . . the Keener name was saved for another generation.

In all honesty I never really gave it much thought about the Keener surname being carried on.  Without even realizing it I did what had been expected of me . . . I took the baton from my father . . . and, I have now passed it onto my sons.  The burden is now upon them . . . primarily because they are the only ones with the Keener surname.  It is up to them to keep the name alive for another generation.

As I said, I never really gave this much thought.

Of our four children, there are three males and one female.  Of our four children only two are married . . . one daughter and one son.  The daughter and son-in-law have blessed the wife and I with two beautiful granddaughters.  Unfortunately in the baton passing category they are of no use in making sure that the Keener surname is carried on . . . our granddaughters do not have the same surname . . . they are no “Keeners” . . . they have their father’s surname.  The baton was not even passed to them . . . it has been given to the three boys.

Of the three boys only one is married . . . the youngest son.  They are the ones who are expecting . . . the baton is firmly in their hands . . . the burden lies upon them.  And, they have confirmed that the child to be born is to be a male . . . an heir to the family name . . . the Keener surname will live for another generation. 

I imagine that the old man is spinning in the grave.

Yet, I understand my grandfather . . . who doesn’t want the family name carried on?  When I actually think about it, it is kind of cool.  The family name . . . the Keener surname . . . will live for another generation.  That is pretty neat to see that it is now in at least its sixth generation with the grandson on the way.  I can understand that, yet it really is not that important to me.

It is only a name.

What is important to me is what the people . . . the families . . . the moms and dads . . . the children . . . the grandchildren . . . embody as a family.  That means a lot to me.  To be a family . . . to love God . . . to laugh and cry together . . . to have relationships and bonding with one another . . . to love one another . . . to have compassion and passion for each other . . . to hope . . . to dream . . . to be proud of one another . . . to enjoy the presence of each other . . . to be good, caring, and loving to others . . . to be there for one another . . . to be a “family”.  It does not matter to me what the surname of those people are as long as they are a family . . . a loving and caring family.  That is what is important to me.  I do not care whether or not the family surname is passed on from one generation to the next as much as I want the “family” passed on from one generation to the next.

Someday the family surname will run its course . . . will come to the end of the trail . . . and the baton will be dropped; but the “family” will always be there . . . always.  I love the “family” that is growing with the present generation.  My son-in-law and daughter-in-law are exceptionally caring and loving individuals who I enjoy being around . . . they embody the good in life . . . and, I know that they will be wonderful parents.  The son-in-law already is and the daughter-in-law will be too . . . after all she has been taking care of our baby for a couple of years now.  My granddaughters are fun and loving and wonderful little people . . . the future looks bright.  The “family” is growing and the legacy of being “family” is growing too.  That is neat . . . and, I want “that” to carry on for generations to come.

That is the real “baton” that must be passed on.  That is what is important.  

What I Hate

Hate is such a powerful word.

Hate is a word that the wife and I attempted to never use around our children as they were growing up . . . it was a word that we did not want them having in their vocabulary.  It was a word that was forbidden in our household and, if it was used by one of our children . . . we clarified what they meant when they were using that word.  We did this because more often than not they did not "hate” whatever or whoever they were ranting about . . . it was usually something else.  Most of the time is was because they had been hurt, not filled with hatred.

It is a word that should not be used lightly, thus I try really hard not to use it at all.  In all honesty I cannot think of anyone or anything that I “hate” . . . that includes politicians during an election year.  I can think of lots of things and people I do not “like”, but no one or nothing that I detest to the point of hating.  It is just too harsh of a word.  Makes me cringe whenever it slips over my lips and out into the world.  No sooner does it slip out that I regret ever uttering the word.

So . . . I have to also admit that there is something that I do “hate”.  I hate Epilepsy.  I hate the Epilepsy that my number three child has been inflicted with since he was around the age of seven.  I hate the Epilepsy that has wracked his body for years with seizures that can strike at any time and in any place.  I hate Epilepsy that has caused him to endure years and years of chemical restraints in the hope that the seizures can be controlled . . . chemical restraints that have beat his internal organs to a pulp over the years . . . and, yet, nothing works.  I hate Epilepsy for all the surgeries he has had to endure leaving scars on his head and body . . . surgeries that failed to make a difference other than to scar his body.  I hate Epilepsy for making him to unexpectedly fall down causing bruises on his body . . . causing him to have stitches to close wounds on his body . . . causing him to be hurt.  I hate Epilepsy because it has made his world so small . . . so lonely . . . I hate Epilepsy because there is nothing I can do or his mother can do, that anyone can do, to end this unpredictable madness and pain. It hurts to be a witness to such a disability on a daily basis.  It breaks my heart and makes me angry.  Angry because I feel so helpless in protecting my son.

I HATE Epilepsy.

For the most part . . . most of the time . . . I can pretty much contain my contempt and hatred for Epilepsy.  After a while you kind of get used to it and learn to roll with the punches.  But the truth is it is always there.  Today was just the straw that broke the camel’s back . . . and, the peculiar thing was I had a hunch something bad was going to happen.  I just felt it in my bones, but I played the odds.  Instead of staying home and waiting for something to happen I went about doing a few errands around town . . . probably was gone for less than twenty minutes; but, that was enough time for my son’s Epilepsy to rear its ugliness in his life.  He had a seizure while getting out of the shower, fell down, and hit his head on the toilet creating a huge welt and bruise by his left eye.  This was the eye that I hauled him to the emergency room a couple of week ago for stitches when he had a seizure and fell.  Luckily—this time at least—there were no cuts and blood to be cleaned up.  Outside of the bruise and swelling mostly his pride was hurt . . . and, as usual he was embarrassed and apologetic . . . always apologetic for something that he has no control over.

Finding him sitting in a chair with an ice pack on his eye when I got home . . . well, something snapped.  Something snapped deep down inside of me and overwhelmed me with a great anger . . . anger at the damn seizures that keep pounding his body . . . that keep pounding his soul.  Anger at the Epilepsy.  It was hate seeping—no, spewing out.  It was hate . . . not a strong dislike like when I have to eat some exotic vegetable the wife tells me I should try . . . but, hate.  If I could grab the Epilepsy that inflicts my son . . . grab it with my own two hands . . . I would beat it to death.  But, alas, I cannot . . . which makes me hate it that much more.

I guess this is my attempt to clarify that word “hate” since I have used it.  Like the wife and I tried to do with our kids.  Clarify what I am feeling.  I am feeling frustration and helplessness . . . there is not much that anyone can do but to be there for our son.  I am feeling anxiousness as the experiences of this day is usually a “marker” for the fact that our son is entering into a period of seizure activity that will keep everyone on their toes for the next couple of days.  I am feeling sadness in the fact that as a parent my gut instincts are to protect my child and there is not a thing that I can do to protect his short of wrapping him up in bubble wrap and tying him to his bed.  Sadness in having to witness the way that this disability has shrunk his world and made it such a lonely place.  Sadness for the way that people treat our son as if he has some sort of dreaded virus that will rub off on other people . . . thus, he is “hands off”, ignored, and treated as someone who is less than everyone else.  The last I knew, Epilepsy was not something that could rub off on other people like a common cold; but, you would not know that by the way people act around our son. 

As clarification of what I feel, I think that this probably only begins to scratch the surface of what is running through my mind and heart.  When all of this is stirred up—like it has been today—it is more than my mind or heart can handle.  The lid explodes off and the hatred comes spewing out . . . I hate Epilepsy.

My mother always told me “that this too shall pass.”  And, it will.  It will because I will scrape up all the remnants and shove them back down where they came from.  I will lock them up and sit on the lid.  I will ban the word “hate” when I talk about it . . . until the next time it becomes unbearable.

Thus ends the rant . . . the clarification.  Epilepsy is a nasty disability of which doctors and researchers estimate that the cause cannot be identified in at least 75 percent of the cases.  Some estimate that it is even higher.  Epilepsy is nasty as there is not any known cure or one way of treating it . . . it manifests itself in many different ways in people . . . it as unique as the people who live with it.  Some people get lucky, others not so much.  Some live normal (whatever that means) lives, while others become incapacitated with lots of folks in between the two.  Epilepsy is not one of the premiere disabilities or diseases that has the money pouring in for research, but it affects a heck of a lot more people than most of us realize.  Epilepsy is just a nasty condition and disability that screws up the lives of those who have it and those who love them.  There is nothing about Epilepsy that makes it even “likable” . . . it has earned its place in the Hall of Hatred.

And, there is nothing anyone can do . . . except what I try to do.  I pray for my son and all those who suffer from Epilepsy that they have a safe day.  I pray that if something happens there will be someone there to help if it is not me.  I work hard to be present for my son as he goes about his daily life, but I know that I cannot be there 24/7.  I pray that I can find the strength to continue to be a witness in what seems like a hellish way to live life . . . never knowing when a seizure might hit . . . never knowing it there will be an injury . . . just never knowing.  I pray that my son, and all those who suffer with Epilepsy, continue to have the hope that one day there will be a cure, that life won’t be so difficult, and that things will be so-called normal . . . and, if not, that they all make the best of it with the love and support of those who care for them.

For now, that is the best that any of us can do.  I love my son . . . but, I hate the Epilepsy that terrorizes his life . . . at least for today.  Hate is a pretty strong and powerful word, so is Epilepsy.  They deserve each other.