A few days ago I received some troubling news. My grandfather, John O’Neill, is on his deathbed, slowly waiting out his last few days on Earth. To many people, the reaction to this news would be pretty simple; they would feel a great deal of sadness, and they would get prepared to grieve. But for me, this news brings a great mix of emotions.

It is not like I don’t know how to deal with death. In fact, I had my first experience with a close death this January, with my maternal grandmother passing away because of complications with cancer. My reaction to my grandmother’s passing was a very common one; I felt a great deal of sadness, and I cried very often. In a way, it was almost simpler; I knew without a doubt that I loved my grandmother dearly and that I’m going to miss her terribly. It was a definitive feeling with no sense of changing. But with my grandfather, I don’t know what I feel.

I can’t really say I have a bad or a good relationship with my grandfather, mainly because a relationship between us doesn’t really exist. There would be long periods of time when I would never see the man, and then there would be times when I would only see him during special occasions. The times when I did see him it was usually the same, the stereotypical old Irishman (a ruddy complexion with white hair, a white sweater and cap) would show up with his big personality, pretending everything was all right while awarding me with a check for $500 for the smallest accomplishments. The problem was that everything wasn’t alright. Sure, at the time, being a young child and receiving a gift of $500, I was wondering why he wasn’t around more. Little did I know about the complicated past between my father’s family.

To put it in the simplest terms, my grandfather wasn’t a good man. In fact, you could say he was a bad man. Continuing with the stereotype of Irishmen, my grandfather was an alcoholic. He was a mean, bitter drunk. He was never physically abusive (as far as I know), but he sure was emotionally. He would say horrible things to my father — his own son — that, frankly, I don’t feel comfortable writing down. Still, to this day, my father carries the emotional baggage from the verbal abuse from his father.

My grandfather also hurt my grandmother. Throughout the time my father and his two sisters were growing up, their family lived a modest, middle-class existence. My grandfather worked many odd jobs, and eventually created the successful welding company Pelham Welding. Soon he started dabbling in buying and selling land and, over time, became a millionaire. He then decided to leave, divorce my grandmother and never give her a dime, even when she raised his children while he went off to get drunk.

To this day, the relationships between the members of the O’Neill family are greatly damaged. The relationship between my father and one of his sisters is a little rocky, while the relationship between the other sister is damaged beyond repair. This sister was treated as my grandfather’s favorite. She became extremely spoiled and grew up to be a evil b---h. When my grandfather had a serious stroke five years ago, she attempted to steal all of his money. She even went as far to forge his signature and sell his expensive Cadillac with no one's knowledge. My father and other aunt can’t even be in the same room as this sad excuse for a human.

Now, as there is clear evidence that my grandfather was a bad man, I still can’t help to feel sorry for him. As I stated above, my grandfather had a serious stroke five years ago. Ever since then, he’s been living in a nursing home without the ability to walk or talk. After creating such serious damage to his family, he’s been alone for this large chunk of this time, as it has become extremely difficult to have a normal relationship with him. Now he lays in his bed, in and out of consciousness, in serious pain, even with severe painkillers, just waiting for the mercy to die. Anyone looking at this situation from the outside would think of me as a monster for feeling nothing but sympathy for this man. The man who gave me the last name that appears at the end of this article. However, I still don’t know what to feel.

Frankly I don’t know what the purpose of writing this article is. I’m not asking for anyone’s opinion on how I should feel. I’m not leaving a poll at the bottom of this article (even though that’s not such a bad idea). Maybe I’m just writing it to get my feelings out on the page so I can sort through them myself. But even after all of this, it still just ends with mixed results. I guess that just shows the complexity of every situation in life, especially when it comes to other people. I just think a large chunk of me wishes I could write a poem for my grandfather like the one pictured above.