| | At 5:15pm (EDT) on Tuesday, August 22, 2006, Walter Zajac died at age 92, at his son's home in Poughkeepsie after a long struggle against cancer. He is survived by two sons, Myron and Oleh, and six grandchildren, Adrian, Renata, Damien, Alexander, Stephanie, and Gregory. His first great-grand-daughter was born in October. He lived a long life, stretching back from his birth on Decemeber 1, 1913, in the small villiage of Zborov in the then Austrian provence of Galicia. He married his wife in August of 1939, a month before World War Two burst forth in Europe. During Soviet and later Nazi occupation of the area, he was a prominent man, known as a leader of the community and as a peacemaker, doing his best to prevent the war from taking a further toll on his friends and neighbors. In 1944, he led a large portion of his extended family westwards to the American and British armies. After living in refugee camps for years, he and his relatives relocated to the Unted States, settleing in New York. His life in America was that of a working man, providing for his family and sending his sons to college. He lost his beatiful wife Anna of 46 years to cancer, and was laid to rest next to her after a separation of 21 years. Funeral services were held on the following Saturday in Upstate New York.
This is the story of the week after he died.
I was just leaving work when my father called me. It was just after 9pm. My dad had wanted my brother and sister and I to be at home together when he told us. He knew I wouldn't get home until about nine, so he waited. He gauged fairly good: I would have been home in only a few minutes. He told me that his last words were, "I'm finished." To the very end he was a Christian, quoting Jesus with his dying words. My dad and his brother Myron were there when it happened, next to their father as he died. My grandfather had been sick for years. I myself had last seen him at my cousin's wedding in July of 2005. But that last year had been hard on him. His age alone prepared us for his death: not many live to be 92. The long sickness of cancer, slowly erasing his body was what did it; he had no more fight left in him. My father had been going to New York to see him with increasing freqency over the last few years. In July he went there and spent time with him and helped him, then came home to California. But something made him go back after only a couple weeks. So it was that my father was there next to his own father the day he died. By the time I was contacted, and my siblings minutes later, he had already been taken to the funeral home in preparation for the burial. My dad got us a flight for Thursday morning. I had 36 hours to prepare.
When I got to my car, I just sat for a few minutes before driving the few miles home. My grandfather's condition was nothing new. He just seemed to get worse every day. Whenever we got more news about him it was negative. Much of the family was looking forward to the birth of Adrian and Roxy's daughter some time in October or November. I had floated the idea that we all get together for Thanksgiving. This completely changed it all.
The three of us awoke the next morning and began going about getting our stuff ready to go. My girldfriend Allyson came over to help me out, as did our mom that evening. roundabouts 4:30pm, I was folding cloathes (Ally was helping) and I just broke down. I started crying, then sobbing, loudly. I don't know how long I went on, but I curled up into a ball on my bed as Ally held me, trying to comfort the pain and sorrow I was going through. I eventually calmed down, but it was hard to get anything done. I stayed up nearly all night, despite the fact that I had to drive us to the airport in the morning. I got a couple hours of sleep, got up, had some breakfast, packed up the car and drove off. It was tragicomic the way we got lost going round and round the airport, freaking out that we would miss our flight, not being able to find our may about (I hate John Wayne Airport). We did find the right parking, finally, and get through security, only to learn that the flight was delayed about three hours. I made some calls, tried to read the newspaper, and waited. I was too wound up to nap.
The flight to Chicago was uneventful and dull. We had brought some food with us and eaten it on the plane, but I was still hungry, so I bought a nice, big sandwich. Because of the delay getting out of California, our layover was brief, we just went from one gate to the other. (I was actually quite pissed about this: the flight was actually on the same plane in the same seats, but we still had to get off and let it move to the other side of the airport.) I took the window seat so I could see the lights at night as we flew over America. We landed at LaGuardia and were picked up by our cousin Renata, who drove us to Poughkeepsie. As were sped northwards into the night, she told us, "The next few days are going to be really crappy, guys." She too, had lost the same grandfather as us. |
| | Posted 3/25/2007 3:01 AM - 138 Views - 6 eProps - 3 comments
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. At least you had the support of your girlfriend though--I'm sure that helped a good deal.
