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One of the most inspiring expressions of unconditional love I’ve ever witnessed was between my four year old son and his Grandpa.
It was on a nail-bitingly cold day in the city of Hobart. I had travelled there with my son to visit Dad, or Pa as he was affectionately known.
Although my son was still very young, and they had only met a couple of times previously, there was a discernible bond between them, and I was eager to nurture it while I could. I was quietly harbouring the fear that Pa was a ticking time bomb.
Pa had been a chronic alcoholic for more than 30 years, and despite displaying a remarkably tenacious survival instinct - he had informed me several years prior that he ‘wasn’t the dying type’ - it appeared that destiny was finally catching up with him in his sixth decade of life.
Upon greeting him, I quickly recognised that there had been a sharp decline in his appearance if not his faculties, and I struggled to conceal my dismay. Pa was strongly resembling a homeless derelict. Dishevelled and unkempt.
He had previously maintained an exceptionally high standard of grooming throughout his life–sometimes to the point of obsession–which made this loss of personal standards all the more alarming.
His fine silver hair had grown long, waxy and unruly. His beard, wily and uncontrolled. It all seemed so out of sync with the Pa that I knew and loved.
Compounding his bedraggled appearance was the unbearable stench of alcoholism. Once firmly contained with a packet of Wrigley’s P.K. and an extra dab of aftershave, it now seeped from every pore. An inescapable, odious stench.
And there was a smear of something unpleasant and unrecognisable on his shoulder. A blob of partially masticated food perhaps. ‘Please don’t let it be vomit’ I thought desperately; feeling my anxiety start to pique.
My son was staring up at him and huddling closer to me, clutching at my hand. Grandpa was greeting him with a loving smile, but he was recoiling with grim uncertainty.
I kneeled down next to him and whispered in his ear, ‘Remember Grandpa? Would you like to say hello to him? There’s no need to be afraid, he loves you very much.’
My boy looked up at him quizzically for a few moments, trying to reconcile the impression of the man who stood before him with memories of his Grandpa. His bewilderment lingered like a texture in the atmosphere.
Then, all of a sudden his facial expression became resolute and he dropped my hand and walked directly over to Pa, reaching up to put his tiny hand in his.
They would stroll hand in hand he had resolved. Dishevelled or otherwise. Stench or no stench. This was his Grandpa, and that was what really mattered.
Pa’s face lit up with delight, the fortunate recipient of his little Grandson’s love. The sweetness of his soul warmed my heart.
On they walked, chatting animatedly about goodness knows what…
I followed, a few paces behind, pulling my winter coat more tightly to shield me from the fierce chill of the air. I absorbed the antiquated charm of Tasmania’s largest city as we walked.
Looking for activities to do together, we wandered the city streets until we came upon a cinema and decided to watch a film together. A kid’s cartoon type adventure.
During the movie I became uncomfortably aware of the stench that Pa was giving off, and the uneasy realisation that nearby cinema-goers must also be suffering through it. The film dragged on in an awkward, odorous silence.
The experience activated a deep sense of shame in me, and by the time we left the cinema an internal struggle was unfolding.
On one hand I was happy to see my Pa and spend time with him; on the other it felt as though passing strangers were boring holes in us. Sharp lasers of judgement shooting from their eyes.
I started to feel I might seep into the sidewalk with embarrassment. The humiliation starting to form like a gaseous cloud above my head.
Then suddenly something shifted. I paused and made a conscious decision to reframe the situation. If I wanted to demonstrate unconditional love to my son, here was an opportunity to walk my own walk.
I was here to visit my beloved Pa. Sure he was looking dishevelled and unruly, alcoholism will do that, but he was also extremely clever, generous with what little he had, and funny. Pa possessed the sharpest, most acerbic wit you can imagine.
It was a brisk day in beautiful Hobart and we didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Pa’s shelf life was appearing frighteningly limited. Today was not the day to wallow in shame. Today I would choose to walk alongside him with pride.
As my son had done only hours earlier, I took a moment to pause and become resolute. I engaged an invisible shield to mute people’s stares and found a smile spreading across my face.
We spent several glorious days in Hobart, enjoying the markets, the scenery and most importantly, each other.
Sometimes our greatest lessons come from a tiny child. Just as a parent can continue to teach us long after we’ve flown from the nest, albeit in ways we don’t expect.
Pa only lived a few more years, passing away in the Whittle Ward in the Autumn of 2016. I spent the week with him before he passed, and my son was also able to visit and spend time with him before he departed.
There’s a beautiful photo of them together just days before Pa passed away, and although his face had been grimacing from the pain of cancer, in this particular image he looked strangely peaceful.
Dedicated to Philip Cook - Poet and Individualist - 17/1/50 – 18/10/16