No one else I love is allowed to die. I'm serious. My heart can't take another one. I woke up yesterday morning, on my 41st birthday, and logged onto Facebook to see birthday wishes. As I scrolled I came across a post from Carol, my first writer friend. It was a sweet photo of one of her nephews as a child. I "liked" it, then noticed a comment that said, "This brought a tear to my eye. She loved her nieces and nephews so much." Wait, what?
I looked at the other comments, my heart beat picking up the news before my head could. Why was that written in the past tense? Why had this been posted by her husband? What the fuck was going on? I didn't want to believe it, but I messaged a mutual friend, asking if Carol had died.
Yes.
Between my birthday and my last day of a job I really loved, I couldn't absorb that news yesterday. I wouldn't let myself even think about it. But this morning, after sleeping in, meditating, praying, talking to some friends, I looked at Carol's blog, and read this, her last blog post: Writing the Story of Your Life.
You have to be made of stone not to cry reading that. But I knew Carol, I loved her. And I didn't know her cancer had returned. We saw each other mostly during the summer, when I was closer to her home in Cape May. We hadn't talked in a few months, but I thought nothing of that. I was going to call her next week to set up a catch-up date.
I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell her how much it meant to me that she befriended me at my first ever writer's conference; that she asked for my email information, and that we struck up an easy friendship. I didn't get to tell her how much I admired her perseverance with her writing. How she inspired me by self-publishing her two beautiful novels. How much I admired her move from Philly to the shore, and how she went after what she wanted in life with gusto.
Her last blog post talks about how she can be a friend to us from the beyond, but you know what? Fuck that. I have too many angels already. I don't want anymore. I want to have decadent pancakes with her at Clary's. I want to walk with her on the beach, or through Stone Harbor, looking at books. I want her support when my book comes out. I want my novelist friend, here, on earth, where I need her.
I will move through the sadness and anger, eventually, and the shock. I know I will. I've done it too many times before. And I will call on her help from the beyond. I do believe that my loved ones are still with me, in a different form. But I hate this.
The price for having a big, beautiful, rich life, so full of love, is having to say goodbye to people, sometimes much sooner than we are ready to do so.
Carol, thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your belief in my writing, and in me. Thank you for your work. Up until your last days, you wrote and published work that deeply moved me, and countless others. I'm angry we won't have any more writing from you, and I am so grateful, bone-deep, that you shared the work you did with us. Help me to follow your example, to have an eighth of your courage, persistence and grace. Thank you for blessing me with your love.
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Cracks are how the Light Gets In
“Mi corazon está roto. Roto.” My heart is broken.
Broken. These were the only words I could summon, in speaking with my host parents in Mexico, after learning that their son had died, suddenly. On
December 26. Of a heart attack. At age 36.
Nine days later, I feel a bit calmer. Somehow, my mind has
accepted that Roje is dead. But I also know that my heart has acquired another
fissure, one that will scab over, and hurt less, but will leave a lasting scar.
I find comfort in the idea that cracks are how the light gets in. Just
today, when I entered the library and heard a screaming infant, I felt compassion
for her and for her mom. Before my own struggles with parenting, I probably
would have thought, “God, can’t you make her shut up? This is a library. People are working.” But the difficulties of motherhood have cracked me enough to make room for compassion and empathy. Though I
wouldn’t have chosen postpartum depression or a colicky infant, I can see that
good did come from those struggles.
The idea that God can bring good out of anything is different than
the idea that everything happens for a reason. I just re-read an article by Christine Marie Eberly about
this distinction and found it very helpful. When someone says “Everything
happens for a reason,” the implication is that God chose this suffering for us for some reason we don’t understand. That concept of God doesn’t work
for me. I prefer St. Paul’s notion that God can bring good out of whatever
happens to us. Anne Lamott says she pictures Jesus saying, “You’re hurting. Me too. You’re angry. Me too. You’re heartbroken. Me too.” That’s a God that I can believe in.
I hate that Rogelio died. And that’s my right. I never would have
chosen this for his wife or his parents, or his small children. But there it
is. We cannot control when or how our loved ones die. I don’t know how good
will come of this, but I have to believe that it will.
Thank you, Roje, for your friendship, your love. Thank you for your beautiful children, your example of kindness and generosity. I am a better person because I knew you. You will always be my brother. Te extrano mucho mi hermano.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Anniversary
Yesterday marked one year since my Grandmom died. I can cry just writing that sentence, but I won’t since I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ocean City. Ocean City, where I have so many memories of Grandmom, like her last trip to my parents’ house, where she and I shared the room with the single beds, as we had in so many places over the years. By then, she was an octogenarian widow, and I was a married woman, but for that night, we were two single girls again.
I still miss her so much it physically hurts me. Not all the time. Not all day every day, but it can still hit me with a force that steals my breath, bends me over, clutching the kitchen counter, tears springing forth, bursting out. It’s worse at night. If a wave hits me at night, I can cry and feel like there’s no stopping it—nothing other than exhaustion or dehydration. Sometimes I’ll get into bed, still sniffling, and just hope to fall asleep, which eventually I do.
One of the worst days I’ve had in recent months was the day I changed my hair color. The day after Grandmom died I woke up with a visceral need to change my hair. I walked into a salon in my town and asked them to make me a blond. The change was so dramatic that my husband literally did not recognize me at first. I needed that change, I needed an outward sign that life would never be the same.
As her anniversary approached, I found myself needing to change it again. Needing that year of mourning to be over, an outward sign that the worst had passed. Another change. Another loss.
I didn’t want to be too dark, but I wanted darker. My hairdresser, who prefers brunettes, was only too happy to comply. But when she finished I almost burst into tears. Because Grandmom was really gone. And that time when it was so raw, so present, that’s gone too. Which is good. Life has to go on. But losing the intense grief, somehow that feels like a loss too. Because that was the thing that made me know she was real, she was here, she loved me. And without that, what will I have? Her things. My memories. Ocean City. Her recipes.
Now I am crying in the coffee shop. Embarrassing. But the reason I wanted to write about this is that I don’t think people talk about grief enough. People are ashamed to cry in public, to show sadness. I’m trying to change that about myself. I heard someone say the other day that she grieved her father’s death for decades. That helped me. Because there’s part of me that thinks I should be over it. That Grandmom was 92 years old, lived a full and happy life, died a year ago, that it shouldn’t still hurt.
And it is better. It doesn’t hurt as much or as frequently. But how could you ever stop missing someone you really loved? Someone who made you feel so good with just one look, one squeeze of the hand? Somehow, just being with Grandmom made me know that I was going to be okay, that whatever I was struggling with would work out, and that I would survive it. Her faith in me was so strong that she didn’t even have to say anything, though she often did. I miss laughing with her, I miss confiding in her, having her confide in me. I miss having coffee with her and her friends, feeling so special and cherished. How many people in life actually cherish you? If you’re lucky enough to have one, and you lose them, doesn’t it make sense to feel that loss?
So I just wanted to say, I’m still grieving. I think in some sense, I will always grieve this loss. But I know, I still know, how blessed I am to have a loss like this to grieve. Alice Walker said in a poem that “grief/emotionally speaking/is the same/as gold.” I think I’m beginning to understand what she means.
I still miss her so much it physically hurts me. Not all the time. Not all day every day, but it can still hit me with a force that steals my breath, bends me over, clutching the kitchen counter, tears springing forth, bursting out. It’s worse at night. If a wave hits me at night, I can cry and feel like there’s no stopping it—nothing other than exhaustion or dehydration. Sometimes I’ll get into bed, still sniffling, and just hope to fall asleep, which eventually I do.
One of the worst days I’ve had in recent months was the day I changed my hair color. The day after Grandmom died I woke up with a visceral need to change my hair. I walked into a salon in my town and asked them to make me a blond. The change was so dramatic that my husband literally did not recognize me at first. I needed that change, I needed an outward sign that life would never be the same.
As her anniversary approached, I found myself needing to change it again. Needing that year of mourning to be over, an outward sign that the worst had passed. Another change. Another loss.
I didn’t want to be too dark, but I wanted darker. My hairdresser, who prefers brunettes, was only too happy to comply. But when she finished I almost burst into tears. Because Grandmom was really gone. And that time when it was so raw, so present, that’s gone too. Which is good. Life has to go on. But losing the intense grief, somehow that feels like a loss too. Because that was the thing that made me know she was real, she was here, she loved me. And without that, what will I have? Her things. My memories. Ocean City. Her recipes.
Now I am crying in the coffee shop. Embarrassing. But the reason I wanted to write about this is that I don’t think people talk about grief enough. People are ashamed to cry in public, to show sadness. I’m trying to change that about myself. I heard someone say the other day that she grieved her father’s death for decades. That helped me. Because there’s part of me that thinks I should be over it. That Grandmom was 92 years old, lived a full and happy life, died a year ago, that it shouldn’t still hurt.
And it is better. It doesn’t hurt as much or as frequently. But how could you ever stop missing someone you really loved? Someone who made you feel so good with just one look, one squeeze of the hand? Somehow, just being with Grandmom made me know that I was going to be okay, that whatever I was struggling with would work out, and that I would survive it. Her faith in me was so strong that she didn’t even have to say anything, though she often did. I miss laughing with her, I miss confiding in her, having her confide in me. I miss having coffee with her and her friends, feeling so special and cherished. How many people in life actually cherish you? If you’re lucky enough to have one, and you lose them, doesn’t it make sense to feel that loss?
So I just wanted to say, I’m still grieving. I think in some sense, I will always grieve this loss. But I know, I still know, how blessed I am to have a loss like this to grieve. Alice Walker said in a poem that “grief/emotionally speaking/is the same/as gold.” I think I’m beginning to understand what she means.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Life Goes On
Life goes on, dear readers. It must. Although part of me feels like life should stop, at least for awhile, it’s good that it doesn’t. It’s good to have to put on a party dress, go to a wedding, focus on something else for awhile. I still miss Grandmom every day. I still have moments that steal my breath, like when I came across her name in the contacts list of my phone. I know I’ll keep having moments like that, I know they will hurt. I also know some things I can do to help. Here is a partial list:
Working on the novel. After a two week hiatus from the novel, I returned to it. Reading about the De-da character in my book, who is mostly based on my Grandmom, is difficult. De-de is very ill in the book and Laura has to say goodbye to him and that all hit a little too close to home these past few weeks. So I moved on to other parts of the book, and happily worked on them, feeling the satisfaction I always get from writing.
Looking at art. Carl and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art where I was delighted to discover an entire wing I never remember exploring before. It was Disney-esque in its recreation of a medieval French monastery, an Indian temple, a Japanese tea house, transporting us to different times and places.
Booking travel plans. My aunt, uncle, and cousin invited me to join them on a Mediterranean cruise, and after some hesitation and guilt about taking a fabulous vacation without Carl, my loving and generous husband gave me the cruise as a birthday gift. I felt that elation I get from the possibility of new places, of adventure.
Surfing. I went surfing last weekend, which helps for the reasons it always helps—keeps me in the moment, gets me out of my head, into my body, into nature. And last weekend I had one of those magical surfing moments when I saw dolphins playing nearby as I sat on my board. Dolphins are one of the things that make me know that God is with me.
Writing. I have some new writing projects, an article idea I’m developing and trying to sell, some job opportunities I’m pursuing, all of which helps.
Unpacking Grandmom’s things. I found at least temporary homes for all of Grandmom’s things in my house. The more I use them, the less it stings to see them. Someday I know it will make me happy to see them, even if I’m not quite there yet.
Exercising. Most helpful is the hip-hop dance class I’ve started attending at the gym, which is great fun.
Seeing Grandmom. For a year now I’ve been driving Grandmom’s 1996 Cadillac Catera. It was one of the most extravagant things she ever bought for herself, and she was so pleased to give it to me. I’ve always felt close to her riding in it, and now that she’s gone, sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see her sitting shotgun, journeying with me, just as she always did, as she always will.
Working on the novel. After a two week hiatus from the novel, I returned to it. Reading about the De-da character in my book, who is mostly based on my Grandmom, is difficult. De-de is very ill in the book and Laura has to say goodbye to him and that all hit a little too close to home these past few weeks. So I moved on to other parts of the book, and happily worked on them, feeling the satisfaction I always get from writing.
Looking at art. Carl and I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art where I was delighted to discover an entire wing I never remember exploring before. It was Disney-esque in its recreation of a medieval French monastery, an Indian temple, a Japanese tea house, transporting us to different times and places.
Booking travel plans. My aunt, uncle, and cousin invited me to join them on a Mediterranean cruise, and after some hesitation and guilt about taking a fabulous vacation without Carl, my loving and generous husband gave me the cruise as a birthday gift. I felt that elation I get from the possibility of new places, of adventure.
Surfing. I went surfing last weekend, which helps for the reasons it always helps—keeps me in the moment, gets me out of my head, into my body, into nature. And last weekend I had one of those magical surfing moments when I saw dolphins playing nearby as I sat on my board. Dolphins are one of the things that make me know that God is with me.
Writing. I have some new writing projects, an article idea I’m developing and trying to sell, some job opportunities I’m pursuing, all of which helps.
Unpacking Grandmom’s things. I found at least temporary homes for all of Grandmom’s things in my house. The more I use them, the less it stings to see them. Someday I know it will make me happy to see them, even if I’m not quite there yet.
Exercising. Most helpful is the hip-hop dance class I’ve started attending at the gym, which is great fun.
Seeing Grandmom. For a year now I’ve been driving Grandmom’s 1996 Cadillac Catera. It was one of the most extravagant things she ever bought for herself, and she was so pleased to give it to me. I’ve always felt close to her riding in it, and now that she’s gone, sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see her sitting shotgun, journeying with me, just as she always did, as she always will.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Things Left Behind
Last Thursday I went to Grandmom's house for the first time since she died. It was difficult to walk into her house knowing she wouldn’t be there, that she would never be there again. But being there helped me to realize that she’s really gone, because there is no way I would be rifling through her dresser or her closet if she were alive. Even still I felt a little weird about it.
But I am grateful that I could bring some of her things home with me—a Waterford crystal vase, a gravy boat and butter dish, some baking tins, cloth napkins, pretty kitchen towels. It felt appropriate to fill in the gaps in my kitchen with things from Grandmom’s, first because she would never want anything to go to waste, and second, because we shared a love of cooking and entertaining. I think wherever she is, she’s tickled that I have her rolling pin, muffin tins, apron and gravy ladle. Best of all I found a cookbook that was obviously well-used and loved, published in the year after she was married. I like to imagine her as a young bride, trying new recipes, learning to cook as I have, from a book.
It stung a little to find so many gifts I'd given her. The cross I had brought back from El Salvador hung right over her kitchen sink, the napkin holder from Mexico sat on the table. I was glad to see evidence of how much I loved her in her house, pleased to see that she cherished my gifts, but also saddened. I didn't want to take them, because they belong with her, but since they can't be with Grandmom, I packed them up and found places for them in my house, along with the shamrock plant I had brought her for St. Patrick’s Day this year.
The hardest moment was finding the birthday card she had already bought for me. Of course she would have bought my card a month in advance. She hadn’t signed it yet, but she was never one for writing long messages, rather selected a card to speak for her. It's yellow with white flowers and glittery touches. In the center of the front is a picture of a yellow rose, and the message: “For a wonderful granddaughter: watching you grow has been like watching a flower blossom. With every year, you’ve changed in so many beautiful ways.” The inside continues, “This just comes to let you know that one of the best things in life is and always will be having a granddaughter like you to be grateful for, to be proud of, to love.”
Bitter bittersweet, these posthumous love messages.
But I am grateful that I could bring some of her things home with me—a Waterford crystal vase, a gravy boat and butter dish, some baking tins, cloth napkins, pretty kitchen towels. It felt appropriate to fill in the gaps in my kitchen with things from Grandmom’s, first because she would never want anything to go to waste, and second, because we shared a love of cooking and entertaining. I think wherever she is, she’s tickled that I have her rolling pin, muffin tins, apron and gravy ladle. Best of all I found a cookbook that was obviously well-used and loved, published in the year after she was married. I like to imagine her as a young bride, trying new recipes, learning to cook as I have, from a book.
It stung a little to find so many gifts I'd given her. The cross I had brought back from El Salvador hung right over her kitchen sink, the napkin holder from Mexico sat on the table. I was glad to see evidence of how much I loved her in her house, pleased to see that she cherished my gifts, but also saddened. I didn't want to take them, because they belong with her, but since they can't be with Grandmom, I packed them up and found places for them in my house, along with the shamrock plant I had brought her for St. Patrick’s Day this year.
The hardest moment was finding the birthday card she had already bought for me. Of course she would have bought my card a month in advance. She hadn’t signed it yet, but she was never one for writing long messages, rather selected a card to speak for her. It's yellow with white flowers and glittery touches. In the center of the front is a picture of a yellow rose, and the message: “For a wonderful granddaughter: watching you grow has been like watching a flower blossom. With every year, you’ve changed in so many beautiful ways.” The inside continues, “This just comes to let you know that one of the best things in life is and always will be having a granddaughter like you to be grateful for, to be proud of, to love.”
Bitter bittersweet, these posthumous love messages.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Post Mortem*
After writing my last post I went back to the hospital. There was just nowhere else for me to be. So I sat with Grandmom, my mom, her brother Mart, his wife Marian and their cousin Dottie. We stroked Grandmom’s hair, we held her hands, kissed her face. We talked to her, we reminisced, we ate chicken salad and chocolate cake. At 7:00, I put Jeopardy on the TV, for Grandmom, even though none of us was watching it. Around 8:30, my mom and I left. Grandmom’s vitals hadn’t changed much in the hours we had been there. We knew the end was near, but no one knew when it would happen. She died within minutes of us leaving.
A song just came on my ipod with the lyrics, “When your mind’s made up, there’s no point trying to change it.” I’m smiling because this describes Grandmom perfectly, even in dying. She decided she was ready to die, and she did. Amazing, the will she had. This, too, I’ve inherited from her.
I had some happy events over the weekend, beautiful distractions from grief. I had a house full of some of my favorite people on Saturday, who showed up with food and flowers and love and children and even a tiny Corgi puppy to play with Nalu. Then yesterday, we had a wedding shower for my brother’s fiancée, Karen. Helping to plan for that, prepare, shop, set up, host, participate, and clean up were all good things to do this week. I wore Grandmom’s pearls, the ones she told me she wanted me to have during our last talk, and I touched them a lot. When the bride opened a gift from Grandmom, I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn’t. I sneaked a look at the card, just to see if it was her handwriting—it was—but I swallowed my grief. Instead I focused on making the bride feel special, loved, and welcomed to our family, because that’s what Grandmom would want.
Tomorrow is the funeral. I’m looking forward to the gathering of family and friends, the shared memories of this amazing woman. My in-laws are coming tonight, and I am grateful for that, another happy distraction. Every day, hundreds of times, I’m grateful for Nalu, my joyful little puppy. I’m grateful for my large and supportive family, and especially for my cousin Julie, who has always been more like a sister. I’m grateful for my Grandmom Owsik, who is not only still living and healthy, but an almost daily part of my life, living as she does just down the street from me. I’m grateful for upcoming weddings and births, for friends and their babies, for the many emails, messages, prayers and phone calls.
I understand now the usefulness of outward symbols of mourning, like wearing black for a year. I wish I had a sign that told people, “I’m a little fragile right now, not quite myself.” Since I don’t, I improvised, spending four hours and a king’s ransom at the beauty salon on Friday to make myself blonde. It was something kind to do for myself, and also a way to manifest physically how different I feel inwardly. And like acting your way into better thinking, I find that I can look my way into better feeling. I may not feel light-hearted and summery, but looking it brings me closer.
*Dark humor is part of the Irish heritage handed down to me from Grandmom.
A song just came on my ipod with the lyrics, “When your mind’s made up, there’s no point trying to change it.” I’m smiling because this describes Grandmom perfectly, even in dying. She decided she was ready to die, and she did. Amazing, the will she had. This, too, I’ve inherited from her.
I had some happy events over the weekend, beautiful distractions from grief. I had a house full of some of my favorite people on Saturday, who showed up with food and flowers and love and children and even a tiny Corgi puppy to play with Nalu. Then yesterday, we had a wedding shower for my brother’s fiancée, Karen. Helping to plan for that, prepare, shop, set up, host, participate, and clean up were all good things to do this week. I wore Grandmom’s pearls, the ones she told me she wanted me to have during our last talk, and I touched them a lot. When the bride opened a gift from Grandmom, I wanted to scream and cry, but I didn’t. I sneaked a look at the card, just to see if it was her handwriting—it was—but I swallowed my grief. Instead I focused on making the bride feel special, loved, and welcomed to our family, because that’s what Grandmom would want.
Tomorrow is the funeral. I’m looking forward to the gathering of family and friends, the shared memories of this amazing woman. My in-laws are coming tonight, and I am grateful for that, another happy distraction. Every day, hundreds of times, I’m grateful for Nalu, my joyful little puppy. I’m grateful for my large and supportive family, and especially for my cousin Julie, who has always been more like a sister. I’m grateful for my Grandmom Owsik, who is not only still living and healthy, but an almost daily part of my life, living as she does just down the street from me. I’m grateful for upcoming weddings and births, for friends and their babies, for the many emails, messages, prayers and phone calls.
I understand now the usefulness of outward symbols of mourning, like wearing black for a year. I wish I had a sign that told people, “I’m a little fragile right now, not quite myself.” Since I don’t, I improvised, spending four hours and a king’s ransom at the beauty salon on Friday to make myself blonde. It was something kind to do for myself, and also a way to manifest physically how different I feel inwardly. And like acting your way into better thinking, I find that I can look my way into better feeling. I may not feel light-hearted and summery, but looking it brings me closer.
*Dark humor is part of the Irish heritage handed down to me from Grandmom.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Grandmom
My Grandmom is lying in a hospital bed, 10 miles from here, dying.
I hate typing that sentence. I hate that it’s true. Even today, all evidence to the contrary I hope it’s not. She’s fought off so many previous illnesses, isn’t it possible she could pull out of this? Possible perhaps, but unlikely.
Last Friday, when it seemed like just another hospital stay, I visited with her. We had an hour of girl talk. I showed her pictures of Nalu, and all the babies in my life, and we chatted about the weddings coming up this summer and the showers, and all the other news I had for her. She looked great, had plenty of energy, seemed optimistic. Right before I left she took out her dentures and I had a sense of foreboding. Her face collapsed in that hollow old person way. She looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before and I didn’t like. But I shook it off as a momentary thing. She was ill, but this wasn’t it.
Unfortunately things took a bad turn over the weekend. Her breathing got increasingly difficult, and she said she was ready to go home. Not to her condo in Media, but to God. When my dad broke this news to me on Monday, over a bad cell phone connection, I was shocked. “No, I just saw Grandmom,” I said. “She was fine. She was planning on coming to the wedding shower on Sunday, to the shore this summer, to Richie’s wedding in August.” I thought it must be some terrible mistake. But slowly the news penetrated. When my mom said that if I wanted to say goodbye to Grandmom I should go the next day, I knew this time was different. No one had ever said that before.
I cried and cried. Nalu did her best to cheer me up, acting goofy and mischievous, but even as she leapt and spun, fighting with her stuffed monkey, the tears streamed down my face. I was not ready to lose Grandmom. I didn’t care that she’s 92 and that she’s ill and that I’ve had her for 33 beautiful years, I still was not ready.
And how could I say goodbye? What could I possibly say? I was really scared. Right until I walked into the hospital room to find my Grandmom alone. And then it was just me and Grandmom, just as we’d always been. I told her everything that was in my heart—that I didn’t want her to die, but that I understood that it might be her time; that at least I knew she’d be with my Grandpop, with her sisters and her beloved nieces who had left us too soon. I held her hand, and she held mine, transmitting warmth and strength to me right through her skin, a love transfusion.
I told her I was grateful to have inherited her Irish charm, and her stubbornness. I recalled for her that she had taught me the word stubborn when I was girl, having called me it when I was misbehaving. Though I understood that she was frustrated, I still had to ask, “What does stubborn mean?” We laughed at the memory and she told me, “Some stubbornness is good. It will help you in life—help you to make the right choices and stick with them.”
I thanked her for writing down her recipes for me, for teaching me how to make her classic Sunday roast beef dinner complete with homemade gravy. I thanked her for her mother’s serving platter that she gifted to me, and the teapot that her mother-in-law had given her when she’d gotten married. I told her how I cherished the memories of when we were two single girls together, sharing rooms in Ocean City and in Ireland. I told her how I treasured our times together in Media, going to mass and coffee with her and her girlfriends. I thanked her for being a great example to me of how to be a feisty lady and a kind lady and a compassionate lady.
And after I told her everything I had to say and listened to everything she had to say, we just sat together, holding hands. A few times I looked up at the TV, which was on without sound, and saw professional wrestling, which just adding to the surreal feeling. Grandmom is dying and WWE is on TV.
I went back to see Grandmom with Carl last night, and she was in a morphine fog, still with us, but not completely, on her way out of this world. I still hate it. I still don’t want to lose her. But I know that I loved her as best I could, that she knows what she means to me, that I showed her every chance I had, and that is an amazing comfort.
I’m holding on to gratitude like it’s my life jacket. I don’t want to lose her, but how amazing that I’ve had her for 33 years, that we’ve been so close, that she’s taught me so much, that I was able to say goodbye. These are gifts and I will suck all the sweetness I can from them, to temper the bitterness.
Good night and God bless you, Grandmom.
I hate typing that sentence. I hate that it’s true. Even today, all evidence to the contrary I hope it’s not. She’s fought off so many previous illnesses, isn’t it possible she could pull out of this? Possible perhaps, but unlikely.
Last Friday, when it seemed like just another hospital stay, I visited with her. We had an hour of girl talk. I showed her pictures of Nalu, and all the babies in my life, and we chatted about the weddings coming up this summer and the showers, and all the other news I had for her. She looked great, had plenty of energy, seemed optimistic. Right before I left she took out her dentures and I had a sense of foreboding. Her face collapsed in that hollow old person way. She looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before and I didn’t like. But I shook it off as a momentary thing. She was ill, but this wasn’t it.
Unfortunately things took a bad turn over the weekend. Her breathing got increasingly difficult, and she said she was ready to go home. Not to her condo in Media, but to God. When my dad broke this news to me on Monday, over a bad cell phone connection, I was shocked. “No, I just saw Grandmom,” I said. “She was fine. She was planning on coming to the wedding shower on Sunday, to the shore this summer, to Richie’s wedding in August.” I thought it must be some terrible mistake. But slowly the news penetrated. When my mom said that if I wanted to say goodbye to Grandmom I should go the next day, I knew this time was different. No one had ever said that before.
I cried and cried. Nalu did her best to cheer me up, acting goofy and mischievous, but even as she leapt and spun, fighting with her stuffed monkey, the tears streamed down my face. I was not ready to lose Grandmom. I didn’t care that she’s 92 and that she’s ill and that I’ve had her for 33 beautiful years, I still was not ready.
And how could I say goodbye? What could I possibly say? I was really scared. Right until I walked into the hospital room to find my Grandmom alone. And then it was just me and Grandmom, just as we’d always been. I told her everything that was in my heart—that I didn’t want her to die, but that I understood that it might be her time; that at least I knew she’d be with my Grandpop, with her sisters and her beloved nieces who had left us too soon. I held her hand, and she held mine, transmitting warmth and strength to me right through her skin, a love transfusion.
I told her I was grateful to have inherited her Irish charm, and her stubbornness. I recalled for her that she had taught me the word stubborn when I was girl, having called me it when I was misbehaving. Though I understood that she was frustrated, I still had to ask, “What does stubborn mean?” We laughed at the memory and she told me, “Some stubbornness is good. It will help you in life—help you to make the right choices and stick with them.”
I thanked her for writing down her recipes for me, for teaching me how to make her classic Sunday roast beef dinner complete with homemade gravy. I thanked her for her mother’s serving platter that she gifted to me, and the teapot that her mother-in-law had given her when she’d gotten married. I told her how I cherished the memories of when we were two single girls together, sharing rooms in Ocean City and in Ireland. I told her how I treasured our times together in Media, going to mass and coffee with her and her girlfriends. I thanked her for being a great example to me of how to be a feisty lady and a kind lady and a compassionate lady.
And after I told her everything I had to say and listened to everything she had to say, we just sat together, holding hands. A few times I looked up at the TV, which was on without sound, and saw professional wrestling, which just adding to the surreal feeling. Grandmom is dying and WWE is on TV.
I went back to see Grandmom with Carl last night, and she was in a morphine fog, still with us, but not completely, on her way out of this world. I still hate it. I still don’t want to lose her. But I know that I loved her as best I could, that she knows what she means to me, that I showed her every chance I had, and that is an amazing comfort.
I’m holding on to gratitude like it’s my life jacket. I don’t want to lose her, but how amazing that I’ve had her for 33 years, that we’ve been so close, that she’s taught me so much, that I was able to say goodbye. These are gifts and I will suck all the sweetness I can from them, to temper the bitterness.
Good night and God bless you, Grandmom.
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