tonight, i am thinking of my grandmother. the memory was triggered by something i read on one of the e-sanghas i frequent. people paying tribute to those passed, remembering them and expressing their love and gratitude for having known them.
i gave my own pitiful memory, though the one of which i spoke there was anything but pitiful. i mean my words are so, for it is never possible to adequately speak about someone who truly made life better for you.
my grandmother took myself and my younger sister in when our parents abandoned us. i was three. my sister, one and a half. she took care of us as long as she could, and when she could no longer afford it, she put me in a children’s home. my sister followed when she was of an age to be taken by the home.
for many years, i thought it was because she did not love me. did not want me in her life. she never talked about it, so that wound aged and festered quite a long time. until recently, actually, when i found some old letters that explained more fully.
it is hard to describe the ache of the discovery. so hard to explain all the lost time, things that might have been, but for my hurting and her inability to speak of it. perhaps it was shame. i will never know. but oh, what a terrible loss, the years of silence and hurting.
we did not reconcile until she was dying of cancer. i sat with her as she passed… having promised when she was diagnosed that i would not let her die in solitude. it was her one encompassing fear, that. we both knew the rest of the family would not be bothered to move beyond the waiting room… their comfort in wailing to one another… selfish to her last.
i know that sounds cold. perhaps even cruel. but you did not know them as i did, as she did. it is perhaps both, but it is also true.
so. i sat with her. for a week straight. we spoke as we could, but the pain was overwhelming and often she would lapse into delirium. i held her hand. rocked and cried and spoke to her anyway… and when i could, when the damned machines would let me, i would send morphine into her body so she could at least lay still a time.
i remember her dying. how her body seemed to just… cave in upon itself. how the skin stretched taunt over her head until she was unrecognizable. the pain making her into some morbid rictus… until all i could manage was to place my cheek to her hand and just breathe… sending prayers and hopes of peace and passing for her.
i remember the nurses, disturbed by my grieving, asking me to return to the waiting room. i was not loud. and i told them if they wanted to have the police force me out, to call them. she had my promise that i would not leave her and if they insisted, it would have to be by force. they left us alone thereafter.stars, i miss her still. i still have to check myself from thinking i’ll just pick up the phone and call her. it’s been almost 12 years.
i remember how my ‘father’ had to be forced to sign over the insurance check so we could bury her. i remember how ‘the family’ tried to get into her apartment before i could get there to see things into probate. i remember how angry i was at them all… and i remember for the first time seeing them actually afraid of me, of my anger. i was so thankful i had the strength to keep them from just… ransacking her place.
after the funeral, i paid the remainder of her bills with what was left… because that was what she wanted… she was always so concerned with meeting her obligations in life. the remainder i handed to ‘dad’ and told him i never wanted to see him again.
my sister and i went through her things. my sister wanted it all. i only wanted three items… a pair of statues that held memories, a small ivory rose brooch that she used to wear, and the old jewelry box she kept upon her dresser. their value to me, beyond price.
i still have them all. my sister has lost, sold, or squandered the rest. and in my purse there is one thing more… an old photograph of her. her and her identical twin sister. for all they looked alike, they were as different as night and day.
it was a good thing to be reminded. it is good, these tribute tears. and it is good that she was as she was, when she was… for her life was one of rare few gifts i have ever been blessed to receive.