Name at birth: Albert Ward Grant, III Date of birth: 23 October 1962 Place of birth: Boston, Massachusetts Date of death: 20 August, 1997 Place of death: Boston, Massachusetts Place of burial: Ashes scattered in Buzzard’s Bay, MassachusettsSubmitted by: Dawn Schramm (Bob_W_Schramm@amoco.com)
“Skipper,”
You are missed.
Love, Dawn
In creating this memorial for “Skipper” our purpose has been 2
fold. First a place to go to remember a life precious to us,
and second to hopefully affect a life of anyone addicted to
drugs. My nephew had many losses in his young life, his mother
tragically taken from his life to battle cancer, when he was
3 yrs old, and her total loss to him thru her death when he was
4. A stepmother lost tragically to him as a young teenager.
Skipper was born with huge feet and a huge smile, the
first to carry
his “hulk” of a body, and the second to win our hearts and
connive pretty much whatever he wanted from anyone. His spirit
was a gentle one and his heart tender. He loved the outdoors
and all its many wonders. His father gave him his love for the
sea, which remained with him for his life. He would choose his
boat or the beach or a woodland ground rather than a bed to
sleep. He always had a dog for a constant companion. He was not
a student as he had a learning disability, and at that time
little was done to compensate it. He was very smart and could
make “things” work, and later was successful in his
construction business. He gravitated to alcohol as a young
teenager, and I am sure pot and other things. I think he
thought it made him a "man" and compensated for his lack of
self esteem. His friends were the same and still fight the
battle today. The "good ole boys," harty har har. Well it has not
been harty har har, as their lives have all been compromised
or lost because of it, and their loved ones hurt
immeasurably. Skipper ran away at 13 and was gone for a year and
a half. He came down my driveway one fall day, and I thought
my heart would break. He was gone again within weeks, and
married at 15. A father at 16. He was an alcoholic, a free
spirit, and still a boy. Harder drugs became involved, but he
was very apt with a “smile” and a lie, so we were never really
sure. Another child, other women, a divorce all by 17. He lived
by his smile and his wits and his whims, he was still a
boy. Skipper was Skipper and we just accepted it—we talked and
lectured but did not take action. Then it never occurred to
us, not so much was available. There was no quality to his life.
As I write this I can hear him say “oh auntie I have quality in
my life—I am doing what I want” and grin at me like I was nuts.
My quality, conventional quality, responsibility all evaded
him—he was always a boy, even in the man’s body. He could eat you
out of house and home, and drink even more, I had pot grow under
my deck from his seeds. We loved him to pieces. Holidays he was
stoned or drunk out of his mind because they were painful to
him. He never talked much about his pain, but it was
evident. Looking back, even more becomes obvious to me. I wish
—I wish we had done things differently. We should have —we
didn't. He is gone. He was an awesome fisherman and there are
many harried tales of people who have “survived” with him on
the sea. He was at home there and had no fear, and the sea was
kind to him. He finally achieved his dream—a 32 ft sailboat—he
made money, lots of it, thru his talent with heavy equipment.
He married again, he had his children. Life was good—he shot
up. He lost his wife, and his girls. He ended up going to jail
for a while because of his addiction. Jail killed him, he was
not a criminal in his heart or spirit and he was never the
same. He never said he was an alcoholic and would never put the
beer down. Jail made him be clean and he looked good and came
out clean—we thought. He had strange friends now—cringy type
people. Do not bring them to “aunties” so I never saw it
coming. Heroin. It becomes one’s love and lover, you yearn for
it and it calls you and calls you. You can not beat it alone. He
hid it for years. He went to rehab, he overdosed and died and
came back. I did not know. Oct.1996 found him in the hospital
fighting infection. He had been fighting the "flu" he told us—finally he went blind and called an ambulance. He looked like
a cadaver—I was scared, and he was scared. He told us he got a
bait hook in his foot and hence the infection. We shipped him
to Mass. General and here begins a horrid horrid end. The
infection caused from a bad needle ran rampant thru his
body—destroyed his spleen and heart valve. He had the spleen
removed along with a big portion of intestines. They gave him a
pig valve to replace his rotted one. Many jokes sprang from
that pig valve. He healed and thrived, he fought to come home
with uncle and I. He was upset that he could not come home with
an open I.V. line(feeding him high doses of antibiotics). He
wangled and tried to make “deals” to come home. The phone rang
at 7am, “look auntie just tell the social worker that I will be
fine, that you and uncle will watch me all day.” Right honey
bun! I’ll hop right on it! An open I.V. line is really
convenient for a heroin addict! Of course he has not admitted
to anything. New Years day he came home—we nursed him and loved
him and he and I had our AA meetings over coffee every
morning. I was so pleased that he took a liking to ice
water—“see auntie I am drinking water” good boy! I have since
learned that addicts drink water to dilute the heroin in
their bodies! He gained 16 lbs in 2 weeks and was the old
Skipper. We were so hopefull, but did nothing to deal with the
addiction, we thought it was gone and he was clean and he
assured us that he could handle it. After his open heart
surgery and a second chance we did not believe anyone would
gamble with that. Feb.he had difficulty breathing and went back
to Mass. Gen. The infection was back—the drs. must not have
cleaned it all out well enough. His other valve was hanging by
a string eaten away by the infection. Another heart surgery a
cow valve this time. He was not expected to live. He did—he
thrived—he came home. He drank his water. I baked and bought
oranges and he gained his weight back. Questions were asked
about him using—we were "sure" he had not because we were with
him and why would he do that after everything he had been
thru! He began to take his lab “Moby Dick” on walks to the
pond, as spring drew near. He realized that he could no longer
do heavy work and hoped to get a captain’s licence and planned
to live on his sail boat for the summer. We watched the spring
flowers come up, he showed uncle where to dig for worms as he
carried the can. They fished in the canoe with moby. He loved
the sun on his skin. He stood by the grill while uncle
barbecued, or sat at the table waiting for me to come home and
have dinner. We took rides and ate ice cream. Things were
looking good. He was damaged and more frail but strong in
spirit. We laughed a lot and cried a lot, but the future was
looking bright. He came home one night jauntily chewing gum and
something was different—I could not figure it. He went to bed
immediately. The next morning he slept—odd for him. Finally
afternoon he came up with moby and he was pulling for breath.
He called the Dr. and they did not call back. Next morning he
was sitting funny and preoccupied. I said we have to go to the
hospital. He said he had no feeling on his right side. We
called an ambulance. He had a stroke. Pieces of the heart
valve get infected and break off and go thru the body—in this
case some hit his brain. Back to Mass. General we went.He said
please feed moby for me. He cried when they told him the
infection was back. We were just beside ourselves thinking the
Drs. still did not clean it all out. By nite he had a 107 fever
was in a coma and packed in ice and was yellow. Little hope if
any. Had he reused—of course not we said. A week like this and
his kidneys failed so he had dialysis. No hope was given to
us. His sister came from Belgium and sat. We sat and I talked
to him about how important he was and how much he meant to
us. His toes were black and dead. His eyes opened one day and
they were yellow—could he hear us—the breathing tube was in—he
could not respond. Each day he grew brighter and it was a
miracle they said. We had many. Breathing tube out—he started to
talk and all he wanted was a drink—single minded. I felt like
putting the tube back after a while. He was a con artist, a
charmer, and stubborn, he would ask passers could they get him a
drink, the nurses said it was ok. Liar,smiler he got that
drink. He didn't care if it would kill him. I saw the addict
and his lack of self control. We laughed at his
inventiveness, but it was not really funny if you thought of
it in terms of drugs instead of gaterade. He was moved out of
intensive care. Again we were hopefull. He would show us how he
could move his leg and hand—he worked at it. We encouraged
him—we loved him. Watermelon was his mainstay and he craved
it. He failed again and the Dr. said another valve was damaged
he would probably not survive the operation. 3 times and you’re
out. He told us to sell his sailboat he was tearful and
finally facing a life that would have to change. We sat with
him, we prayed with him, we laughed and cried, and uncle stroked
his head while I kept my hand on his heart. The clock
ticked. Inside we felt like we were saying goodby while being
positive on the outside for him. They took him and the nurse
hugged me and cried. He was a legend and they all loved him. We
waited all nite while they operated—he made it thru. Thank you
Thank you God! He did well. They got him up and sat him on a
trapeze thing—he said he felt like a bird on a perch. He
never complained. He worked at moving his limbs. He was coming
home—no rehab. He would do it himself in our pool. He wanted
home. They would have to clean his chest wound every week to
keep the fungus down so it would heal and it was one nite
before they did this again that he and I talked and I told him
how proud we were and how much we loved him, and that our whole
family was glad he was a part of it and not one of his
cousins ever complained about him being with us. He said “aw
auntie” he was not comfortable with emotion. The next day was
not the usual scraping and back to your room. They found
fungus growing from so many antibiotics that they could not
close his chest. He lay for 6 weeks with his chest
open, breathing tube, and 1/2 paralyzed. They would bathe his
heart everyday to fight the fungus. Watermelon and gatorade
became his joys. He worked at writing to us. He was so
strong, and fought so hard. He always had a smile for us and
kept his wonderful sense of humor thru it all. We told the
nurses to watch out for his wink as he was apt to pinch a butt
when he could. The Drs. were cautious he kept rallying and his
chest was clean and they could close him. What a wonderful
gift that day was. We were hopefull as was he. I never stopped
being sure he would come home. Just one more setback to get
through. He did well for a while but in the long fight he was
failing—would we consent to a trach to ease him. We struggled
with that and said yes. I feel now that he lost hope then. Too
much. He blew up like a balloon he returned to normal. Up and
down on a roller coaster we all went. One sunday in Aug. he
begged us to take him home “just put me in the truck uncle” we
said we would bring him home. I tried but he would not have
made it. We waited too long to try and bring Moby to see him.
He would listen to the dog on the phone and tears would flow. I
brought him a lucky stone from lands end and he held it and
while his eyes puddled up. We lost him on a wild and windy
day—Aug 20, 1997. The ocean was wild. He was awake and
responsive—he knew we were there and that we loved him and he
loved us. He was given many narcotics to ease his way into
eternal sleep. He would not sleep he waited until Dawn his
sister once again came from Belgium. She gave him watermelon
juice and he closed his eyes and quietly went to sleep. He came
in love and he left in love surrounded by family and close
friends. I hope anyone fighting addiction will benefit from
his life. We cannot hide our knowledge of someone who uses and
we have to confront it hard and fast with love—unconditional
love. Skipper hid it and lied because he thought he would lose
us—he did not we lost him in the end. He wrote his feelings
and I have some in his poems.Through them I hope you can
experience his depth and his heart.
The islands they call me
The wind blows my name.
The ocean, she crys for me in the same way.
Her tears hit the beach every single day.
I think I’ll go.
I know I’ll leave someday,
maybe this fall, in my own special way.
As fishes that are taken in an evil net,
and as birds that are cought in the snare,
so are the sons of man snared in an evil time.