Colón’s Corner: In Remembrance – Eugenio “Papa” Rivera (1936–2023)

A tribute to the best grandfather a guy could have

We lost a good man on Friday, July 7, 2023. My great grandfather, Eugenio Rivera or as we in my family affectionately called him, “Papa”, died after a long struggle with dementia and diabetes amongst other long-standing health issues. He was 86.

Born on November 15, 1936, in his native Puerto Rico, he wasn’t a man who came from much materially. But whatever he lacked in money he made up for with an exceptional work ethic that eventually brought him to Connecticut where he’d settle into the next chapter of his life.

Even still, for as bereft financially as Puerto Rico was in those days, there were challenges in the Northeast lot for which he’d choose to settle in too. What family patriarch doesn’t have to deal with challenges after all? But he overcame them.?All?of them. And he did so with the same quiet unassuming way about him that’d come to define his very character and make us in the family love him all the more so.

He shared a wonderful life with my great grandmother who precedes him in death, having passed away in 2011. They shared nearly 50 incredible and hilarious years together. They were the ultimate case of opposites attracting. Abuelita was the life of the party, dancing around, cooking for everyone, the ultimate extrovert. Papa, the quiet more introverted type who was simply happy with his feet up on the recliner in the living room watching his novelas, a plate of rice and beans with chicken by his side, a glass of milk no matter the meal always in hand.

We did just about everything together. I spent just about every weekend over at his apartment where he and abuelita gladly babysat for many a time during my smaller years. After abuelita died, we still kept that tradition going, never was I going to leave him of course. And even though we were both missing a gigantic piece of our hearts not having her around, those times spent together after her passing still produced some of my best memories.

Together, we watched those ridiculous soap operas and Univision shows that were so over the top you couldn’t help but laugh (and boy did we). He picked me up from school where the routine was always to stop by Dunkin’ Donuts. He’d grab a hot coffee while I grabbed an orange juice and we both grabbed our favorite donut, the classic old fashioned, where we’d bolt to my house and share the meal before mom got home like a couple good old boys. It was always the little things with Papa, but God did they mean everything.

As he approached 80, he began to slip. You don’t want to notice it, but after a while it becomes the elephant in the room and soon it was made official when he was diagnosed with dementia. He couldn’t remember the basic things he’d done all his life. Doctor’s offices he’d gone to for decades were now foreign, basic tasks around the apartment became extremely challenging, and common errands he’d been running for as long as I could remember weren’t so common anymore.

It wouldn’t be long before he could no longer drive. We moved him into a retirement community where things were well for a period of time before his dementia gradually deteriorated even further, subsequently making a nursing home the unbearable yet necessary choice to make as far as a place of residence was concerned. He hung in as best he could, and even still he had his good days where the memory was superb, and the old Papa would pop out. It was sadly always short lived, however.

I went to see him for what I knew would be the last time the Tuesday before his death. He was frail, his skin riddled with marks of both age and health woes, his chest bloated, his breathing incredibly labored. He was asleep as he’d been for the last two days or so, he wasn’t eating anymore, he couldn’t talk anymore either. It was painful and I could only look at him once before I turned my head. The sight too much, the cruel reality of the situation too awful to bear.

Not being there for one last time with him was never an option. I had to be there. I owed him that. Out of respect for everything he’d done for me. Out of respect for the great man and caretaker he was. Even if he was unaware of all of it, I needed to be there with him, just as he’d been there so many times for me. We’ll bury him a week from now, he’ll be interned next to abuelita. I’ll carry his casket to his tombstone in what will be my first and hopefully only time as a pallbearer. It won’t be easy but I’ll gladly do it for him. Again, I owe him that. And of course in a sense this is how it’s supposed to be. Never in a million years would he have wanted to carry my casket after all.

Even though I’d braced myself for the end, it doesn’t make this any easier. There was still a shock when I was told he died. Currently, there’s a heaviness hanging over me, a heaviness I can’t even begin to describe. I’m sure it’ll be with me for quite some time. In the grand scheme of things however, how lucky was I? How many people can say they knew their great grandparents let alone had as much time with them as I had? 23 years with him, not a single second of which I’d ever trade for anything.

He isn’t suffering anymore and that brings me comfort and my faith in God is a stronghold too. I know I’ll see him again and I long for that joyous day where we’ll embrace each other and I’ll once again hear that voice I already miss so much. I’ll do my best to be half the man he was, I’ll do my best to honor his memory. 86 meaningful, beautiful, impactful years. You’ve done good Papa, te quiero.