I'm probably going to have a few more posts about Grandma, so yeah.
Anyway, I talked to her on the phone yesterday, including about death. I try to be really straightforward with her, because I think she prefers it. So she was telling me how it was time, and reminded me that she's lived for twenty years without my grandfather. I hadn't thought of it that way. Can you imagine being in love with someone and married to them for over fifty years, and then having to be without them for twenty more? We talked about all the good things she's been able to experience in those twenty years, including the births of many of the great-grandchildren, and she emphasized how much she loved my kids, how nice it was to see them last weekend. But she believes she'll be reunited with my grandpa, her husband, after death. And I can imagine that it has felt like a pretty long wait.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Saturday, March 17, 2018
Granny
Dear Dad: You might skip this one.
Getting this out of the way up front: my grandma is dying.
My other grandmother died last November. And although even thinking this probably makes me a shitty person, this one is the *good* grandma.
I mean, not good like jolly and baking pies and shit good.
Good like genuinely interested in my life and the lives of those close to me.
But she's not all sweet and lovey-dovey. She's prickly as fuck. Here is an example: I talked to her on the phone last night and she asked me to call my cousin and tell her -- and I quote! -- that she needed to bring over a new photo of the baby "or I will walk over there and kick the shit out of her."
I almost laughed myself silly once at a restaurant when a waiter came by, gestured to my grandma's plate (which had ONE bite of uneaten salad on it that had been sitting there for twenty minutes) and said, "I can take that for you." She almost stabbed him with the fork, saying, "No you will not!"
Most of the time when I show up on her doorstep she leans her head back so she can take me in (she's about 4'9") and says, "You little shit!" She calls Lochlan, whom she loves "to pieces," a little fart-blossom.
She is and has been inexplicable and moody and wholly tied to routine. She is vulgar and loving and strong and stubborn, and when she decides on something neither heaven nor hell can stop her. She is a freight train of single-mindedness. And she decided a long time ago that she wasn't living past 90. God himself could not change her mind now. I think this crazy old lady willed herself some liver cancer.
I am desperate for her to stay, and for one reason only. I LIKE her. Not even love. I love a lot of people, her included. But I just get a fucking kick out of her. I enjoy her company. She makes me laugh.
When I was little, one of my strongest memories, probably because it got repeated hundreds of times, was leaving my grandparents' house. They would stand on the porch in more or less any weather, and wave at you until you were out of sight.
Our phone conversations are laughably, historically, epically long, because she asks me about every member of my family and my best friend, and then she tells me about my aunts and uncles and cousins. Starting about twenty minutes before we hang up, she'll say, "Well, I don't know anything new. Do you?" But then she'll think of something new.
It is a compliment for her to call a child a "love." But if she calls them a "rascal," then you know that child has delighted her. She makes no bones about telling you who she is mad at. But she is also the first to remind you of all the good qualities of someone you are lucky to have.
She doesn't mind asking for favors. I think she relishes asking for favors. If you stop by to drop something up, she will heave herself out of a chair, start to waddle down the hall, gesture for you to come too, and say, "come in here a minute." And then you will have to fix her computer or set up her printer or find the right kind of day planner or something. And god forbid you say you will do it and then actually do it, because she has already asked six other people who are also on the case.
My grandpa died when I was 23, and I was crazy about him, too. He wasn't the same as her, but they complemented each other well. He could be passionate, too, but he was often gentle. Like her, he loved spending time with the grandchildren and would tell stories of their exploits, laughing.
They both love/d me so much. It is sure something to be loved like that.
When Grandpa was in the hospital, we all gathered around. Most of their children and me and my oldest cousin. We had wandered around the waiting room and cafeteria and his room, milling about as he lay in his hospital bed, unmoving and unshaven (I had never seen it!). But then we were called in for A Meeting in an unadorned and brightly lit room, and we were told of Our Options, and I am not exaggerating when I say that every head in that room WHIPPED to look at my grandma. Because it wasn't our decision. It wasn't even up for discussion. It fell on her. And she was ready. Facing the doctor, she held her head high and steady. "Buddy and I have been married for fifty-three years," she began. It ended with a decision to take him off life support.
At the funeral, the family sat in a little side room -- at a funeral home I can see from my front yard, oddly enough. A bagpiper played Amazing Grace, people said some beautiful and some true things, there was a chance to view the body that I passed on, and then we were leaving. There were deli trays at Grandma-and-Grandpa's -- no, now just Grandma's -- house. People filed out into the sunshine. But I was not leaving, because fuck that. If I left, it was over-over. It was real, and my chance to mourn publicly and be in a place where I could still JUST CRY was gone and I exit into a world where there was no more Grandpa. So fuck it -- I might as well have been welded to the bench. Grandma was the only one left with me, and she beckoned me with that same gesture she makes to have you follow her down the hall. I told her I wasn't ready, and she looked over her glasses at me and said, "come on."
What I'm saying is, she has taught me a lot about knowing when it is time to let go.
Fifteen or so years ago, when she first told me she would not live past 90, I tried to brush her off. She might be in great health! Who knows what the future holds!
Last year, when she was turning 90, she told me that she didn't want to live forever. I said I wanted just five more years, just so my kids would really have her memories cemented in their minds, as I did of her own mother.
When I found out this week that she has cancer and is uninterested in treating it, I knew what I had to do.
I went over to visit, and I painted her nails. We did not talk about her sickness, other than me asking if she was comfortable or in pain. As I sat on the floor in front of her, my eyes on the pink paint, I said, "Grandma, I told you I needed five more years out of you. But that was wrong, and I take it back. You can do whatever the hell you want." "Thank you," she said.
I don't know whether this is a weeks thing or a months thing. But I know one thing about my grandmother, and that is that she is as stubborn as a mule. She has decided not to live past 90, and she will not be doing so, god damnit.
I don't know anything new. Do you?
Getting this out of the way up front: my grandma is dying.
My other grandmother died last November. And although even thinking this probably makes me a shitty person, this one is the *good* grandma.
I mean, not good like jolly and baking pies and shit good.
Good like genuinely interested in my life and the lives of those close to me.
But she's not all sweet and lovey-dovey. She's prickly as fuck. Here is an example: I talked to her on the phone last night and she asked me to call my cousin and tell her -- and I quote! -- that she needed to bring over a new photo of the baby "or I will walk over there and kick the shit out of her."
I almost laughed myself silly once at a restaurant when a waiter came by, gestured to my grandma's plate (which had ONE bite of uneaten salad on it that had been sitting there for twenty minutes) and said, "I can take that for you." She almost stabbed him with the fork, saying, "No you will not!"
Most of the time when I show up on her doorstep she leans her head back so she can take me in (she's about 4'9") and says, "You little shit!" She calls Lochlan, whom she loves "to pieces," a little fart-blossom.
She is and has been inexplicable and moody and wholly tied to routine. She is vulgar and loving and strong and stubborn, and when she decides on something neither heaven nor hell can stop her. She is a freight train of single-mindedness. And she decided a long time ago that she wasn't living past 90. God himself could not change her mind now. I think this crazy old lady willed herself some liver cancer.
I am desperate for her to stay, and for one reason only. I LIKE her. Not even love. I love a lot of people, her included. But I just get a fucking kick out of her. I enjoy her company. She makes me laugh.
When I was little, one of my strongest memories, probably because it got repeated hundreds of times, was leaving my grandparents' house. They would stand on the porch in more or less any weather, and wave at you until you were out of sight.
Our phone conversations are laughably, historically, epically long, because she asks me about every member of my family and my best friend, and then she tells me about my aunts and uncles and cousins. Starting about twenty minutes before we hang up, she'll say, "Well, I don't know anything new. Do you?" But then she'll think of something new.
It is a compliment for her to call a child a "love." But if she calls them a "rascal," then you know that child has delighted her. She makes no bones about telling you who she is mad at. But she is also the first to remind you of all the good qualities of someone you are lucky to have.
She doesn't mind asking for favors. I think she relishes asking for favors. If you stop by to drop something up, she will heave herself out of a chair, start to waddle down the hall, gesture for you to come too, and say, "come in here a minute." And then you will have to fix her computer or set up her printer or find the right kind of day planner or something. And god forbid you say you will do it and then actually do it, because she has already asked six other people who are also on the case.
My grandpa died when I was 23, and I was crazy about him, too. He wasn't the same as her, but they complemented each other well. He could be passionate, too, but he was often gentle. Like her, he loved spending time with the grandchildren and would tell stories of their exploits, laughing.
They both love/d me so much. It is sure something to be loved like that.
When Grandpa was in the hospital, we all gathered around. Most of their children and me and my oldest cousin. We had wandered around the waiting room and cafeteria and his room, milling about as he lay in his hospital bed, unmoving and unshaven (I had never seen it!). But then we were called in for A Meeting in an unadorned and brightly lit room, and we were told of Our Options, and I am not exaggerating when I say that every head in that room WHIPPED to look at my grandma. Because it wasn't our decision. It wasn't even up for discussion. It fell on her. And she was ready. Facing the doctor, she held her head high and steady. "Buddy and I have been married for fifty-three years," she began. It ended with a decision to take him off life support.
At the funeral, the family sat in a little side room -- at a funeral home I can see from my front yard, oddly enough. A bagpiper played Amazing Grace, people said some beautiful and some true things, there was a chance to view the body that I passed on, and then we were leaving. There were deli trays at Grandma-and-Grandpa's -- no, now just Grandma's -- house. People filed out into the sunshine. But I was not leaving, because fuck that. If I left, it was over-over. It was real, and my chance to mourn publicly and be in a place where I could still JUST CRY was gone and I exit into a world where there was no more Grandpa. So fuck it -- I might as well have been welded to the bench. Grandma was the only one left with me, and she beckoned me with that same gesture she makes to have you follow her down the hall. I told her I wasn't ready, and she looked over her glasses at me and said, "come on."
What I'm saying is, she has taught me a lot about knowing when it is time to let go.
Fifteen or so years ago, when she first told me she would not live past 90, I tried to brush her off. She might be in great health! Who knows what the future holds!
Last year, when she was turning 90, she told me that she didn't want to live forever. I said I wanted just five more years, just so my kids would really have her memories cemented in their minds, as I did of her own mother.
When I found out this week that she has cancer and is uninterested in treating it, I knew what I had to do.
I went over to visit, and I painted her nails. We did not talk about her sickness, other than me asking if she was comfortable or in pain. As I sat on the floor in front of her, my eyes on the pink paint, I said, "Grandma, I told you I needed five more years out of you. But that was wrong, and I take it back. You can do whatever the hell you want." "Thank you," she said.
I don't know whether this is a weeks thing or a months thing. But I know one thing about my grandmother, and that is that she is as stubborn as a mule. She has decided not to live past 90, and she will not be doing so, god damnit.
I don't know anything new. Do you?
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