My little sisters and I hopped eagerly out of the car. I was sixteen years old, and autumn was near. We rushed towards the house with its stone-littered facade; the beige, brown, and grey familiarity beckoned us to enter. The soft, golden afternoon light glowed brilliantly and as the sun was just beginning to sink behind the treetops, I burst through the old creaky storm door. It was, as always, pleasantly smeared and smudged with cloudy, white fingerprints and also with tongue-prints from the dogs, Winston and Churchill. Affectionately known as “the boys”, their fur looked like silky, auburn waves undulating smoothly until reaching the tempest of the ferociously wagging tails. The door slammed behind me with an abrupt and satisfying clatter.
I yelled, “Grandmommy, Grandaddy, we’re heeeeere!” Then, there he was, handsome and sophisticated, standing resolutely in the doorway from the cool, sunny hallway leading into perhaps my favorite kitchen. The kitchen walls were a sagely green--sagely because they knew more than they would admit. The L-shaped, black, granite countertop had housed countless hot, noisy, joyous Spearman meals. Beneath the counter lay the cupboards of mystery; I never could find what I needed from them. Grandmommy was always rearranging them. “Susu, my sweetie!” he called. His bright smile revealed a set of straight, white teeth, and the skin near his twinkling, green eyes bunched delightfully into wave after wave of perfect wrinkles. His clean-shaven face was framed by well-manicured white hair; thick for someone in his 70s. My hero, “my John Wayne” as my cousin Ashley called him, strolled welcomingly in to greet me. I ran towards him, as I always did, jumped into his arms throwing my arms firmly around his strong, proud neck. This time was different, though. “Woah, Baby. Be careful,” he cautioned gently, nearly toppling over. I, a 5’1” 130-pound girl, had nearly knocked over my powerful, 6’2” grandfather. This was the first of countless days that I would walk into that safe, old house to find my John Wayne weaker than before.
“I have ALS,” he proclaimed, “Lou Gehrig's Disease.” I was shocked. What miserable, terrifying disease had the nerve, the gumption, to touch my grandfather? My emotions were in what I thought at the time was an upheaval, but I knew nothing of the pain that would soon find its way into our family. A neuropathy is a type of disease that attacks the brain and nervous system. ALS causes deterioration that slowly and gradually removes the brain’s ability to communicate with the muscles. Because of this decline in control, the muscles begin to atrophy. They continuously wither away until the victim is unable to speak, eat, or eventually breathe. Asphyxiation is a common cause of death in the end. But to me, ALS is more than a disease. It is once strong hands hanging like limp banana peels with concave canyons between formerly nimble, handy fingers. To me, ALS is a black, electric wheelchair, the shiny, metal vehicle that carried the weight that his body and our arms could not bear. To me, ALS is the monster that gave Grandaddy countless nights of terror--waking up unable to breathe or choking on his own saliva. His saucer-like eyes and limp hands, flailing about at the ends of weak, sagging arms.
An autumn Saturday came two years after the first signs of deterioration. The same beige, brown, and grey stone lay beckoning in its mortar prison.The same smudged and smeared storm door slammed reliably behind me, reminding me of the seeming finality of its closing. The same sagely green walls had taught my family more than we wanted to know. A few solemn hours were spent in the kitchen that day. The granite countertop now held the weight of many melancholy conversations in addition to delicious, steaming meals. Amazingly, it was able to bear such a burden. Suffering had given the whole of the old house a tendency to sigh: great, heaving sighs that tried to lend strength to Grandaddy’s weak lungs. Something was hazy about this particular visit. Everyone had grown weary, but God had lain a restful air on us, like a warm, golden embrace. The time soon came for me to go home. I tiptoed across the kitchen and gently pulled open the rumbling, sliding door that led into the den. There he was, handsome and sophisticated and tired. He lay in his wheelchair, reclining slightly, taking short, rattling breaths. I looked fondly on my John Wayne wearing his familiar Clemson paraphernalia, and timidly touched his shoulder. He stirred for a moment. “Are you leaving, Baby?” he inquired. “Yes, Grandaddy. I have to go. I love you so very much.” Unbeknownst to me, “I love you too, Sweetie” were the last words I ever heard him say. I kissed him on his head where his thick, white hair was now replaced with thin, white fuzz. He relaxed back into his repose, and I left him with the warm tingling of a love-filled heart and the icy sensation of the pain of watching someone I love suffer.
Norville Bridges Spearman passed away in his sleep two weeks later on November 5, 2011. But that day, the last time I saw him, touched him, or heard his voice is a day forever burned into my memory.
