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Anyone who has a family knows that having a family isn’t always easy.

That’s just how it is.

I know more than a few people who were dreading spending the holidays with their families this year.

And no two dreads were the same, either.

Some had recently lost relatives who defined what “home” meant to them.

Some had recently seen major relationships fall apart.

Some families were struggling with illnesses or chronic psychological problems.

Some people just didn’t get along with their relatives, and wouldn’t get along, and knew that every moment spent with “loved ones” was going to be an exercise in patience, Oscar-winning fakery, or gun control.

They were going to ford into those waters for one of two reasons: because they were expected to, or because they couldn’t imagine not trying… no matter how trying it got.

I consider myself blessed to have a pretty excellent relationship with my mom and dad. I had no idea how rare our connection was until I got older and met people who had left their homes and their parents and never looked back.

I couldn’t have imagined what would make anyone choose to do such a thing… until I heard their stories.

Then I really felt lucky. Though I probably still don’t get just how lucky I actually am.

I get along well with everyone else in my family, too… though distance and busyness and age gaps have rendered some of those bonds more formal than others.

Things change.

People get married.

People have kids.

People get older.

People get sick.

Family dynamics evolve as relationships and people evolve, and sometimes you end up a bit bewildered.

Or, I should say, sometimes I end up a bit bewildered.

I did think my life would look different at this point, but I am well down the road of accepting that, even if I hit bumps now and then. I’m okay. Really.

But I’m not always sure what to do when the people who used to be the rocks in my life seem to be drifting out to sea.

Intellectually, it’s easy. Aging happens. Grandparents get old, they get sick. None of that should come as a shock to me or to anyone. My grandmother, my dad’s mom, died three years ago. It was very sad, but inevitable.

His dad is still alive, but it’s been a hell of a year for him. Or a hell of a couple years. And I don’t think he knows what to do with all the operations and illnesses and the falling-apart body and the rasping voice and the mind inside of all of that which simply cannot reconcile the man in the mirror with the guy he always was.

Hardasses do not accept getting old with much grace.

I don’t really know a better way to say it.

And this Christmas was a bit of a wake-up call for me, the drop-by-every-now-and-then-granddaughter, about how things were really going in his life.

He lives with my parents, so they know what goes on. They know his highs and lows, the times of giving up and giving in, the moments where he wonders why, the moments where he’s so angry at growing weak that his frustration seems like the strongest thing about him.

My Nonna, his late wife, had always been fragile.

When she passed away, it was after years of being sick and needing care and sitting quietly in the midst of raucous family gatherings, just watching. That was who she was, though. She was a bird, not a bear, and when her wings broke, you knew you had to hold her gently to help her heal.

My Poppa, though, he was always the loudest of the laughers, the bluntest of the talkers, and the most robust of workers, well into his seventies. Throughout his seventies, in fact.

Now, I can say without a hint of malice or criticism that he has let go of much of what defined him as the Steve McQueen of grandpas. Some of it by circumstance, some of it by choice. A choice, albeit hard to accept at times, that was and is absolutely his to make.

But as I listened to him hack and cough today, leaning into his cane, closing his eyes with a mix of resignation and fatigue, I felt more acutely than ever that my family was going through a change.

The caretaker was needing care.

The children, my parents, had become parents of a different kind.

And I, adult daughter without a family of my own, felt like I should know what to do to help any of these people, and all I could do was be frustrated.

Why wouldn’t he eat the damn cough candy? Why wouldn’t he drink the tea? Why wouldn’t he smile at much of anything anyone did? Why would he refuse to help himself when help was right there?

I’m ashamed to say I was pretty angry inside. Or disappointed. I’m not sure which.

Both suck, I know.

But it took me a while to realize that I wasn’t really angry at him, because how could I be? I don’t know how it is. I can disagree with how he handles stuff, and I can tell him what I think he needs, but as long as he’s alive, he’s got his own calls to make.

I was angry at how time seems to show such a strange lack of grace in how it passes.

I didn’t want my grandpa to get older.

I don’t want my parents to ever get older or sicker. Please, no.

And I sure as hell don’t want to be 32 and feeling like a selfish brat.

I wanted to be 8 years old and perched on his lap while he tugged the ringlets in my hair and told me I was terribly spoiled and deserved no more gifts.

Right before he would hand me another one.

I know how stupid it sounds.

I know time waits for no man, grandpa or otherwise.

I guess I just wanted it to wait until I knew how to handle everything.

And everyone.

And all of this.

I didn’t get that capacity for Christmas this year, though. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to open the box if someone handed it to me.

What I got was this: some excellent presents; an admiration of the strength and fortitude of my parents as caregivers; an appreciation for every single year I’ve had with my grandfather in my life; an honest look at my own selfishness with my family; five minutes with my second cousin, baby Aayla, on my lap, drinking in her infectious giggle; a moment of shock when I saw my face in my aunt’s expression for a moment; a really nice turkey dinner; a re-appreciation of the Dan Marino Dolphin dynasty; three more Scrabble ass-kickings of my poor, dear father; and a pretty dumbass, daft little cry that was equal parts grief, feeling safe enough to let go, sheer impatience and those feisty little hormones.

And, of course, the awareness that I could probably stand to see my family as it was now, and to remember the past fondly without hanging on.

Because there are big things and blessings ahead, too.

I have no reason to believe otherwise.

My grandfather, even in his pain, expects nothing less for me. And as weak as he has become, if he believed I saw the future any other way, he’d whack me in the head with his cane.

Hard.

I love you, Poppa.

Merry Christmas.