It’s startling when you realize just how much your family resembles yourself. Ever since I was born, my Dad, my Grandpa, and I have been pretty much the same person. We all have heavily fixated minds and are deeply passionate about the subjects we’re interested in. We’re all emotionally oblivious and have trouble connecting with people on a meaningful level. We all struggle with anxiety and how to deal with our toiled emotions. And we all loved grabbing a slice of Grandma’s homemade pies. Even our baby pictures look identical.
I always related very much to my Dad and Gramps because for most of my life, we all connected and struggled with the same things. Now, it’s just my Dad and me.
Part of a family of eight, David Lee Dunn was born on March 5, 1938 from his mother, Hilda Dunn. Gramps and my Grandma, Marilyn, eloped in 1959 and had two children: my Dad, Stacey, and my Aunt U’lette, who sadly passed away in 2020. I remember visiting them both at their old home in Papa Grove, Illinois when I was very little. I used to play inside their pantry, taking out all of the pots and pans and banging on them with wooden spoons like I was a drummer in a band. Grandma told me that Gramps would always put the pots and pans back in the pantry after I was done playing with them, only for me to bring them back out and play with them all over again. I smile at the thought of him eventually giving up altogether, telling my Grandma to just pick up a pan off of the floor when she’s ready to cook dinner.
I don’t remember Gramps being the warmest personality as I was growing up. Grandma was always the one who played with me, sang with me, made toys with me, and tucked me into bed in her upstairs bedroom. That’s not to say Gramps wasn’t affectionate in his own way — it just looked different from Grandma’s, like asking if I wanted a cookie or giving me a glass of milk.
I found out why our interactions felt different much later in life, and that’s because Gramps was uncomfortable. Not with me mind you, but rather with himself. You see, the Dunns all struggle with a form of high-functioning autism that blessed us with great skill while cursing us with social ineptitude at the same time. My talents were in writing, while my Dad’s was in music.
Gramps, meanwhile, was a master at machinery. If you gave him a wrench, that guy could work his way around any car engine or kitchen appliance, tinkering away until he found what made it tick. My Dad always said that Gramps was the best worker he ever had, and I could see why. He wasn’t called “Mr. Fixit” for nothing.
But that level of genius comes at a cost. As I already mentioned, people on the autism spectrum struggle in social settings more than most other people do. I myself always struggled with what to say to people while growing up. I couldn’t read sarcasm that well, and I didn’t know how to pick up on other people’s nonverbal cues.
Gramps had it worse than any of us. Not only were his symptoms more severe, but because his condition wasn’t properly diagnosed until 1981, he went through most of his life without the support he needed. He was always questioning himself, uncomfortable with his emotions and how to properly communicate with others. When I went to Sunday church with Grandma, I remember Gramps always skipping out on going with us. Not because God wasn’t important to him, but because he was legitimately scared that he might have to talk to somebody.
I know firsthand what it’s like to be a prisoner in your own body — I’ve lived that way my whole life. But in many ways, Gramps’ prison was worse than mine ever was. That’s why I relate to him so strongly.
It’s also why I’m so grateful that as I grew older, our relationship became stronger. At around the time I entered high school, he took a great interest in video games, and my Dad and I got him an Xbox 360 for Christmas. The games he played were the same as the movies he watched, either action or westerns. I remember watching him as he shot up gunslingers in Red Dead Redemption or Call Of Juarez, stormed the beaches of Normandy in Call Of Duty, or shot down a fighter jet in Ace Combat. No one else in my family really got into gaming as much as Gramps did, so it was nice to share that passion with him and bond over it together.
But as time passed, Gramps’ hearing got worse, and eventually, so did his mind. Earlier this year, Gramps was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. We were told he probably wouldn’t live past the year. He passed just shortly after Easter.
It’s so strange and heartbreaking to see someone you love deteriorate right in front of you. He often tried to eat inedible objects like bottle caps or napkins, and at other times, hallucinated that other people were there with us when they weren’t. One time, he pointed out to the garden and said “There’s my Ma. I’m going to go see her soon.” One of the scariest things to happen, however, was one day when he accidentally locked himself inside his closet for six hours. My Dad literally had to rip off the door bolts just to get him out of there.
The most surreal thing by far though was the moments where you recognized your loved one hiding behind the mental fogginess of their mind. In one of my last interactions with him, I helped him to get up from the couch to go into the other room. Behind his tired eyes and smile, I could see my Grandpa exhausted and weary not just from the disease, but from all of his years living on this Earth. “I’m no good Dave,” he muttered to me in between some tired chuckles. I pressed my forehead into his and told him “You’re good, Gramps.” The fact that one David was saying this to another, I still don’t know if we said these things to ourselves or to each other. Maybe both.
At other times, Gramps faded away, and the sick and frail persona took over. There was one point where he clutched onto my body while standing up in his bedroom, and I held him up for about two hours. It felt like my body was a pillar, and it was the only thing keeping him from falling into despair.
It’s been a few months now, and it still feels weird without him around. This isn’t my first time losing a grandparent, and it won’t be my last time either. But losing someone you grew up with who feels so much like yourself feels like a piece of you has died with them. My Dad, Gramps, and I all grew up feeling like we’ve never really been understood by the world. To lose someone who did understand you so personally makes the loss feel a little bit deeper.
I take comfort knowing that despite all of the bad days, memory lapses, and fading comprehension, it was still my Gramps I saw when I visited my grandparent’s home. I know this because when my dad was going through his things after he passed, he found my wife and I’s wedding invitation within the pages of his Bible. I remind you — this was a man who tried eating bottle caps and locked himself in his closet. And in the midst of all of that mental anguish and confusion, he still somehow found a way to put his grandson’s wedding invitation next to the most special place in his heart. That’s how Gramps loved — silently, yet truly.
Despite everything our family has experienced in the past few months, I’m happy that my most prominent memory of him isn’t his dementia episodes or his hearing problems. It was a small, potentially inconsequential moment at their old home in Christmas 2005. I was home alone with him while Grandma was out shopping, and I was crying at the ending of How The Grinch Stole Christmas (don’t judge, I was a sentimental kid). Given his own social struggles, it would have been easy for him to ignore me and continue watching football in the other room. Instead, he came over to me, hugged me, and kissed me on the forehead. It was the first genuine moment of affection I felt from him where it didn’t feel forced, awkward, or uncomfortable. It felt natural. It felt like him.
“Love you, Dave” he said to me.
Love you, Gramps.
– Little Dave
1938 – 2023
DAVID DUNN 