Dave Caolo

Update: On 8/16/09, this story came to its inevitable conclusion. My only consolation is that the miserable indignity has ended. Our nations’ health care system — and attitude towards the elderly — must change. Dramatically.

– Dave

Sometimes life lets you down in an incomprehensible way.

Followers of my Twitter stream undoubtedly noticed that I was in Oneida, NY this weekend. My grandfather, now 92, has moved from his house to a nursing home and frankly isn’t doing well. My sisters, mother and I went up to see him for what was likely the last time. Already, I wish I could remove this memory from my brain.

Let’s back up. My grandmother (his wife) died about 12-15 years ago. She received Hospice* care at home. I visited during her illness, but not when it was bad. My selfish reason was simple: I wanted to my last memory to be of the incredible woman with the aqua blue ’58 Plymouth Fury who drove us kids to Niagara Falls, served bologna-and-butter sandwiches on antique bone china, hosted my sister and I for two weeks every summer so my parents could get a break and otherwise loved us as her own kids. I wanted her gravel-y laugh, curly hair and giant glasses to stay with me, and that’s what I’ve got.

By contrast, my last memory of my great-grandmother is of her withered face in a hospital bed, little more than a skin-wrapped skull with tubes protruding from her nose. Speaking with her, I knew she had no idea who I was and it was awful for both of us. She was uncomfortable and confused, I was a wreck. Sure, I remember her cooking for us when we were kids and picking figs off of the tree to toss at my great-grandfather, but any memory I recall mutates into the hospital scene and I hate it.

Back to my grandfather. Other than my immediate family, he is by far my favorite relative. To keep a long post short: Exceedingly kind, very quiet and private and the most talented artist I’ve ever known.

He hand-spun sliver and pewter. For decades, he worked for Oneida, Ltd. designing flatware, bowls, serving dishes and so on (here’s one of his patterns). His work was terrifically intricate and sold all over the world. He also painted in oils, pastels and charcoal. He made copper busts of his children which are incredible. He wrote short fiction. He designed and built his house (a boxy, Mid-Century Modern affair that I absolutely love) and local church. And, as we learned while cleaning his house, he sketched endlessly.

My aunt uncovered hundreds of sketches and blueprints on velum, cardboard, paper and so on for lamps, flatware, furniture, homes … on and on. We had no idea how much work he had done. It was amazing and will take months for us to catalog.

Among the stacks were some gems. For example, there are two ornate lamps in the livingroom that I’ve always admired of cast bronze that he designed. We found the early sketches, adjustments, presentation materials and finally detailed measurements and instructions for the workers who actually built them. Incredible.

He and my aunt — his daughter — have a volatile relationship. Always have. She inherited the artistic ability but squandered it. She started painting at 12 and, by the time I was old enough to notice, was very good.

Not in her eyes.

Everything she ever painted, and I mean everything, went into the trash. She found a reason to be unsatisfied with every canvas, every sketchpad, every watercolor. Into the trash can the went. You’ll never believe what we found in the basement.

Every single one. All of them. The only way my grandfather could have collected these would have been to sneak into the trash can when no one was looking, remove the painting and tuck it in the basement.

I could go on but suffice to say my respect for him as an artist and a person has grown a hundredfold. So where is he now?

Sitting in a hallway littered with old people in wheelchairs. Just stuck there, motionless, like potted plants. What a rip-off. What an insult. What an undignified end to an incredible person. That’s what you get? After a lifetime of creativity, dedication and love, that’s your reward? The existence of a rag doll?

Now, that’s my last memory. My proud grandfather, hunched over from years at a drafting table and the workbench, sitting in a hallway filled with wheelchair-bound strangers. Awful. I sincerely hope I die before I get old.

*Can’t say enough good about Hospice.