saying goodbye to grandpa

when dylan was born in 2008, he didn't have a name, and days passed---one week later he still didn't have a name. people called, emailed, wanting to know what name we had given our new baby. we couldn't agree on a name, john and i--every time he'd think of a name, i didn't like it, or he didn't like any of the ones that i liked. then one day, my parents were over at the house, and they were talking, drinking coffee, visiting the new baby (who didn't have a name!). but, yet, there was no rush. according to california law, you have up to a year to file a birth certificate with your chosen name. and john comes rushing into the bedroom, where i was nursing dylan.

'how about dylan?' he asks. 

i love the name, love it, it's a great name. but we can't, i said. too many dylans in our friends' families--too many dylans that we know. let's start over, go hit the baby names book again, i said. 

but i just had a conversation with your dad, john said. he said that when you were born, your name meant 'deep water'... big ocean. and i just looked up dylan, and dylan means 'son of the ocean.' your name means water, or ocean, and you're the mother, so it makes sense. 

and with that conversation, over coffee, john and my dad, at the breakfast table, they had found dylan's name. and i couldn't argue--it was a perfect name for our baby. in welsh dylan means 'son of the ocean' and he is my son. my ocean. we are forever grateful for the name, dad. 

what i'll remember is this:

one of the last conversations we had at the hospital, a few days before he died, my dad was telling me to take care of dylan--admonishing me to go home. he promised that he was going to get better, and that he would come home soon. back at the house, that's when he would see dylan, he said. 'i will see him at home,' he said. i'm not sure if he was saying that for my benefit, if he didn't want me to be sad. i'm not sure. 

'go home' he said. the traffic is bad out there, and it's night. 

goodbye, i said, i'll come back to see you. take care. and get better, i said. 

he looked at the clock, it was barely 6 p.m. but it was dark and rainy outside. 

it's a long night, he said, and he smiled, talking about the long stretch of night he had ahead of him. and with that, i left, and he closed his eyes, preparing for sleep. 

and that was one of our last conversations before talking got too difficult for him. and he was 100 percent typical dad, as always, concerned about me, the rain outside, the terrible l.a. traffic, my safety---and wanting to know how dylan was. 

we are forever grateful for your kindness and love and legacy and pride. 

may you forever guide us to new directions, and whisper in our ears about rainy weather and busy freeways. give us your blessings and continued love in spirit. an ocean recedes, they lap, they burrow, waves crash, and you leave. the seas part, and they take away. but may the waters always, always bring you back to us.