Iain Grinbergs
My grandfather was a double amputee. He was not in a literal war—just one that, looking back, was in his mind. What convinces me about my grandfather having his own war is that my mother, not long ago, said that when he was working on the motorways outside London, he could not handle being so close to the traffic. He drank, my mother said, to cope with it. Then he lost the job. He spent most of his days watching Westerns, drinking, and smoking in his armchair, dissociating and self-medicating. When I first saw him after his two operations, in the middle of the over-heated living room in Northampton, England, I was shocked—he used to be over six feet and built, as the Brits say, like a brick shithouse. But there he sat, white and withered.
To me, as someone with two anxiety disorders, I know he had anxiety, too, although he never would have admitted it. I don’t even know if he—or my grandmother—knew what anxiety meant. (When I told my grandparents I was going to study psychology, not art, my old-school Scottish grandmother laughed). He rarely shared personal stories, but over ten years ago, as we sat at the walnut dining table, a half-finished crossword in front of him, he recalled asking his Glaswegian father for money. His father’s silent, slow turn was a signal for my grandfather to run. He laughed a bit before rolling an Old Holborn cigarette. Behind that laughter, though, was deep sadness. Not knowing how to respond, I grabbed the crossword and soon asked him for the city name for so-and-so, to which he replied with “Tripoli.” It didn’t fit.
During that time, I had left the University of Derby in England and was staying with my grandparents in Northampton until my mother could get the money together to fly me back to Florida. I felt like a failure. After four years away from England, after living in Florida following my parents’ divorce, I felt like an outsider in my own homeland, even though I tried my best to stay connected by listening to Radio 1 every morning before school. I also came down with something after spending too many days drinking cider (I made a friend who was from the West Country) and was in bed for at least three days, hardly getting off my flat dorm room mattress. I pissed in the sink, which was near the bed. I struggled to shit in the one shared toilet. I didn’t eat. I sipped on tap water. I remember some of the girls I met knocking on my door and saying, “Hello? Hello?” and “Are you going to class?” As I said, I was majoring in psychology after deciding, at the last minute, to not major in art. I suppose I was trying to understand myself, my family, and society. Perhaps, though, I didn’t want to face it.
Against his doctor’s advice, my grandfather kept going to the pub for his pints of Old Speckled Hen. I pushed him there. I knew my grandmother didn’t like it, but it was either I pushed him there or he pushed himself, which he had before I came over for university. He would often complain that I was going too fast for his bedsores, especially with the roots pushing up from the wet, black pavement, so I would try to go slower, but it was never enough. One day, as we waited for the lights to change, I remember a car going by and a black-haired girl grimacing out of the window. She was staring at my grandfather, who didn’t like to wear his prosthetic legs. I don’t know if my grandfather saw her, but her face is imprinted on my mind. That, and the glances from people along the high street.
At the time, I had become interested in Buddhism. As I pushed my grandfather, I thought of the Simile of the Chariot, found in the Milindapanha, a Buddhist text that records a dialogue between the Indo-Greek King Milinda and Nāgasena, a Buddhist sage. Nāgasena says to Milinda that the self is like a chariot, the chariot being made up of different parts—wheels, axles, a frame, and more—all of which will decay over time. In other words, you can’t point to one part that can be identified as the chariot itself. The word “chariot” is just a convenient label that is used to describe the parts working together, just as “self” is a label. The “self” is just the five aggregates (form, sensation, perception, mental formations, and consciousness) working together. Clinging to what you think is a true, permanent self, the Buddha said, will only lead to suffering.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the simile in relation to my grandfather. There was something so compelling yet so terrifying about no-self, and I couldn’t get over what I had read somewhere earlier about consciousness depending on how integrated a system, like a brain, is. I wondered at what point my grandfather would stop being what I believed to be my grandfather. “He” was slipping away. I thought about reincarnation a lot, too. How could I be sure that this life was not just another awakening in a long string of horrifying awakenings? Was I headed toward Nirvana, or was I headed for the life of a water vole?
I didn’t know then, pushing my grandfather to the pub, but I had Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome (WPW), which caused irregular heartbeats. I never suspected a heart condition. I always thought it was psychological, and when I finally went to the emergency room in Florida, not long after getting back to the States, I even said to the desk person that I thought I may have a brain tumor, as I kept feeling dizzy. The person laughed and said that I didn’t have a brain tumor. I remember thinking, You know nothing about my medical history. Nurses brought me back immediately, and soon they found, after running an EKG, that I had WPW. I smiled, which may seem odd, but it was a relief to know that there was something physical going on.
About a week later, I was on the operating table. I couldn’t get over how cold and uncomfortable the table was. Well, at least I’ll be knocked out, I thought. I remember one of the techs, a short gray-haired woman with glasses, commenting on my stripey socks, saying that she hadn’t seen socks like those before. I knew she was trying, in some small way, to distract me, but it was such a trivial statement—what wouldn’t have been?—that I think I just said, “Yeah.” I was strangely, uneasily resigned to what was about to happen. I just wanted to get it over with.
And I was looking forward to not thinking for a bit.
I felt a strange comfort in handing my body over to someone else, especially when that someone else, a cardiologist, was supposedly the best in town. I didn’t really think about the possibility of dying on the operating table, as the doctor had told me that the main danger would be that he would hit the AV node and I would need a pacemaker. (He was quite nonchalant in how he talked about the operation, and that somehow made me feel better). Anyway, I thought I had lived a decent enough life that, if reincarnation were true, I would’ve come back as a well-cared-for housecat. Besides, I had thought of death too many times after learning of my WPW—there was a possibility that I could’ve dropped dead at any point before.
When I had my consultation, the cardiologist said that he had to “cook” my heart to stop the irregular beats. Well, I woke up three times while the doctor cooked my heart. I felt it burning. I can safely say it’s not a sensation I will forget, and I think about it randomly, especially when stressed. The last time I woke up, a tech asked him if he had gotten it yet (“it” being the problematic spot in the heart causing the condition), and he said, “No, not yet,” exasperated. I groaned and soon slid back under.
I wondered what my grandfather thought about while on the operating table. All I really know was that he had worn multiple pairs of underpants the morning of his first operation, as he didn’t want the doctor and nurses to see his “crown jewels.” You silly old fart, my grandmother said, they’re going to see it no matter how many pairs of underpants you put on. I also know that my grandfather, too, woke up during one of his operations. He heard his leg being dropped into whatever it was dropped into.
It, like my heart, made an odd thud.
About the Author
Iain Grinbergs is an assistant professor of English and Communications at the College of Central Florida and a former middle school teacher. He earned his PhD in English from Florida State University. He’s won recognition for his poems. In 2021, Black Lawrence Press announced him as a finalist in its Black River Chapbook Competition. In 2022, Conduit Magazine announced him as a semifinalist for its Marystina Santiestevan First Book Prize. Lastly, in 2023, the Tennessee Williams and New Orleans Literary Festival announced him as a runner-up in its twentieth annual poetry contest. Bottlecap Press published Vanity Twist, his first poetry collection, this year.