If you've read other posts I've written about him, you already know how much he meant to me. How much he meant to both C and me. We always enjoyed visiting him when he lived in California whenever we traveled there, and when he relocated to the east coast when he was in his 80s, we were within driving distance, which was wonderful. As adults, we've loved every chance we've had to hang out with him, share holidays with him, talk with him, and be the happy recipients of his heartfelt hugs. He is the reason I'm a Dodgers fan and the reason I love Huntington Beach.
He welcomed C from the first time they met and over the past 35ish years, they grew to be amazing buddies, teasing each other and laughing uproariously. They talked about anything and everything...business, sports, technology, family, and travel. I loved watching them together all these years and I am so grateful for the bond that they shared.
I've been thinking and thinking and thinking for two weeks of what to write; how to capture what this man meant to me. I still haven't found the right words.
But I will share two memories that maybe provide the tiniest glimpse into the impact he had on me.
The first memory is from when I met him. I was an awkward Caucasian ten-year old who unexpectedly found herself part of a Chinese family. I was nervous and a little scared and quite unsure about how I was going to fit into this new family and its unfamiliar culture and customs. We flew from our small city in northern Ontario to glamorous and exciting southern California during summer break and from the moment I met him, YaYa accepted me as one of his own. I will never be able to articulate how it felt to be welcomed into this new family. Decades later, my heart still swells when I think about that. From that first trip to California, I had a YaYa. And he loved me.
The second memory is much more recent. In December 2023, we went to visit him in NJ and even though the staff at his assisted living residence knew we were coming and had planned to have him up and ready so we could take time to lunch, they hadn't been successful. When we arrived, he was still sleeping in bed, so I went over to him and when he opened his eyes and saw me, he loudly exclaimed, "My granddaughter! My granddaughter!" and threw open his arms to me. If you didn't spend the formative younger years of your life in any kind of family turmoil, this might not seem like much to you. But at 94-years old, to have him be so excited to see me, to know who I was even as his memory began to fade, and to hug me with such strength and energy was almost more than my heart could handle.
As I've shared before, he was technically my great uncle, not my grandfather, but he'd been like a father to my dad, so therefore, he was my grandfather. My dad adopted me, and I will be forever grateful for that. But my YaYa didn't adopt me; he could have decided to be polite and cordial and nothing more. I wasn't biologically part of the family. He could have kept me at arm's length and viewed me as an outsider. Instead, he chose to love me. Wholeheartedly and without reservation.
I miss him so much and I will miss him for the rest of my days. I'm heartbroken that he is no longer with us.
But I am so damn proud to be his granddaughter.
Happy Tails to you...
