My paternal grandmother died on my 21^st birthday. It was a very difficult time for me-- I’d just gone through a painful split from a guy with whom I’d been good friends for several years, who I’d dated for nine months or so, with whom I thought I’d spend the rest of my life. And then my grandmother died. Suddenly. On my birthday. My grandfather Poppy, however, had just lost his wife of almost 60 years. He was, obviously, suffering far more than I could ever imagine.

The funeral was held three days after her death, a delay that allowed my father’s family time to gather in Tampa for their shared grieving. And gather they did.

Now if you were ever unfortunate enough to stumble upon a gathering of my father’s family, you might quickly assume that there’d been some terrible tragedy at the trailer park that had necessitated the relocation en masse of such a sordid bunch. Even a funeral could create such an illusion.

They were a cussing, fighting bunch, although, with the exception of my father’s funeral, they were mostly able to refrain from fisticuffs within the very short time frame allowed for the mourning of the death of a family member. They were a drinking bunch too, but they were, out of respect for the older generations who were grieving, considerate enough to move the ice chests of beer from the backs of their trucks to the shade offered by the cedar trees just off the front porch, an effort on their part that helped minimize the distance one had to travel, while mourning, to obtain a can of cold beer.

That said, my grandmother’s funeral went off, relatively, with no problems. There was a sufficient supply of cold chicken, warm potato salad, and melting green jello to ensure a nasty case of upset stomach for all of those willing to partake. As if the food weren’t enough, my cousin’s children did their part by assuring much traveling fun for their parents by eating all of my grandmother’s three boxes of chocolates that they’d found in the medicine cabinet, chocolates that were so cleverly marketed as Ex-Lax chocolate laxatives.

But once the house had cleared of all the friends and relatives, my grandfather, an amazingly graceful, patient, and hardworking man, was obviously suffering. No group of family or friends, no off-color joke, no strip-club outing could bring back the smile to his face. He staggered through life, day by day, for several months.

I was, therefore, very happy when my father called me to tell me that my grandfather was coming around, that he’d found a new sense of purpose, that he’d created a new mission for himself to stay busy. Then, between chuckles, my father cynically confided that my grandfather had decided to write the definitive interpretation of the Bible. He was isolating himself in a room, for hours at a time, working feverishly, writing.

I argued that Poppy had been a good man, that he was suffering, that we should all allow him the space to grieve how he wished, and that if he opted to take a spiritual path along the way, we should be supportive. My father replied with, “trust me—this won’t last.” He was right, although none of us would know it for quite some time.

About six months after the death of my grandmother, my mother was suddenly called upon to frequently take my seemingly healthy grandfather to the doctor. She, on several occasions, asked her father-in-law why he needed to be under the care of a doctor, care that included several trips a week for appointments. My then 81-year-old grandfather was always able to avoid providing specific details to answer her questions. Finally, having grown weary of whatever shenanigans her father-in-law was up to, she worked up the nerve to step up to the receptionist’s desk at the doctor’s office and ask the question, “Just what is wrong with Mr. Coyle?”

A nurse stepped forward and said, “Well, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

Cleverly, my mother, instead of identifying herself as the daughter-in-law, simply answered, “Mrs. Coyle.” For my prim and proper mother, this was a terrible mistake.

The nurse smiled at her and said, “Well, you’ll be happy to know that your husband has had a penile implant.”

My mother surely gasped for air, not simply because of the nature of her elderly father-in-law’s surgery, but because she would have felt the retroactive embarrassment and long-standing humiliation of having walked into that doctor’s office, time and time again, with the entire staff assuming that she would be the ultimate beneficiary of this surgery. She spun on her heels and walked out, leaving my beloved grandfather there.

She ended up calling my father who, once he finished laughing, was able to drive back to the doctor’s office to pick up my grandfather. It was then that he learned that my grandfather had suffered a setback, so to speak, that the incision had become infected, thus requiring several follow-up visits. My father, of course, volunteered to drive him from that point forward.

The news spread quickly through the family. Phone calls and family gatherings gave the opportunity to further embarrass my mother, but likewise, provide much entertainment. We all learned that this surgery had involved putting a balloon-like cylinder in the penis itself, while the “pump” for the balloon was tucked away in the scrotum. Between jokes that were inappropriate to tell about anyone's grandfather, there were many high-fives, handshakes, and knowing nudges. And like a proud new father, Poppy loved being the center of attention. In fact, he was the one who laughed the loudest when my cousin Skipper said, “Well, with Nanny having died, I know you’re going to have to re-write your will—can you be sure to leave that new contraption to me?”

Eventually, of course, the brouhaha settled down and we all stopped watching my grandfather’s every move, having ceased living vicariously through an 81 year-old man with a new toy. In fact, it was almost a year after my grandmother’s death when my father, having to go to Detroit on a business trip, asked Poppy to join him. Any health concerns from which my grandfather had previously suffered had long since left the consciousness of everyone. By then, his balloon was just another rarely mentioned member of the family.

That is, until, lying in the hotel room in Detroit, my father was startled awake by the sound of his father in the next bed, screaming his name. “Bill,” he yelled, “get me to the hospital—I think I’m having a heart attack.” Dad called for an ambulance, which he ended up following to the hospital in his own car.

The next few hours were quite scary for my father. He was in a hospital that was unfamiliar, in a city that was unfamiliar, surrounded by doctors and nurses who didn’t have the medical records of his seemingly very ill father. Moreover, he was unable to get any information related to his father’s condition, with the attending physician being nothing short of rude and condescending to him. My father was absolutely distraught by the time he finally was able to get in to see Poppy.

Obviously, he was very relieved to hear from my grandfather that he had not had a heart attack, that instead, he had simply suffered a panic attack, of sorts, and that he was ready to be discharged. My father did, however, press for more details, including the cause of this attack.

Poppy then explained that he had recently been given the all clear from his doctor in Tampa, that his balloon-infection had finally cleared up, and that he’d been given the ol’ green light for a test drive of his new driving machine. And, while lying in the hotel bed, he’d revved it up and taken it out for a spin.

My father grew angry. “You were masturbating? Does the doctor know this?”

My grandfather said yes, of course he’d told the doctor that, that he was lying in the bed next to him, masturbating.

My father screamed, “Were those your EXACT words? You told him you were lying in the bed next to your son masturbating? Did you bother to clarify that you were lying in a separate bed? That you were, in fact, lying in the bed next to my bed?”

My grandfather just started laughing, understanding that he had made a rhetorical mistake, a mistake that caused my father an embarrassment and humiliation akin to that which my mother had experienced in the office of those health care professionals back in Tampa. Yeah, that balloon had become THAT family member, the one you’d prefer to not show up.