Yesterday morning, my biological grandfather passed away. He was 91, and would have celebrated another birthday in April.

Grandpa J led the most colorful life of nearly anyone I have ever known. He was a World War II vet, serving in the Navy. He was also a locally famous stock car/drag race car driver. He was the father of many children, grandfather of many grandchildren and even a few great grandchildren, including my own. I recall that when they were very little, he would always send them a little toy at Christmas.

Grandpa J was the first biological relative to call me on the telephone. When I answered it, his first words to me were “This is your grandpa, J.” I remember feeling at that moment, as if all of my other grandparents were laying a hand on my shoulder and blessing this new relationship that I was beginning, not just with him but with all of my biological family. Like many kids, I revered all of my grandparents. Sadly, I had lost all of them by the time I was 22 but I cherish the memories I have of them. It was incredibly moving, and fitting, to me that my first phone contact with a biological relative was with him.

I only was able to spend time with him on three occasions, the last one being two and a half years ago. Even then, Alzheimer’s had robbed him of so much, including his ability to speak. He did speak occasional words, but none that day (the below photo is a selfie we took on that day. I actually love this photo). But what I remember about my grandpa was him telling me that he would pray the Rosary over my and my husband’s photo, which was next to his chair. I remember the small trinkets he sent for our kids, which I knew were sent with pure love. I remember his shaky scrawl on a Christmas card which arrived every year without fail. I remember his swagger, even as an old man, when he walked into the room. I laughed with delight at the stories I have heard over the years about his shenanigans.

I also really appreciated how he tried to bridge the gap between his daughter/my biological mother, S, and I. He never quite made it happen, but he tried. Sometimes, that is the best you can hope for and sometimes, that is what really matters. I am having some (okay, a lot) of anxiety regarding seeing S next week under these circumstances. I have only seen her twice before, and the last time was in 2010. I never wanted “the next time” to be at her father’s funeral, but it looks like it is going to be. The thought crossed my mind this afternoon that, perhaps, she won’t want me there. I honestly don’t know what I will do or say if that happens. It is hard to explain, but I feel very strongly that I need to be there to say goodbye. Traditions are important to adoptees. At least, they are to me. And even more than that, I feel that I belong there.

Grandpa J was not a perfect man. Far from it, some may say. But I loved him. And without him, there would be no me. I was so fortunate to have had in my life for the past fifteen years. I know he’ll be leading the parties up in Heaven now, and saving a seat for me.

Raise a glass of whisky to J, a true Irish boy.