A few months ago, my almost-13-year-old grandson told me his great-grandmother (mother's mother's mother) had recently died. At least, that's what I thought he told me. I'm not on unfriendly terms with his mother (who is not my son's wife), but we don't chat regularly, either, so I hadn't heard this news.
I confirmed this info to be true with Marine Son, First Grandson's father.
I'd meant to send belated condolence letters/cards to FG's mother and her mother -- dead grandmother was a nice lady and I'd liked her -- but I hadn't got around to it.
Imagine, though, my surprise this week when I received a Christmas card from said dead grandmother.
The stick-on return address label showed just her husband's name, but I immediately recognized the handwriting that had penned my name and address as the same hand I'd been seeing for the 12 years the couple had been sending me cards. My initial reaction was that the great-grandfather had been writing out the Christmas cards all these years and I just hadn't known it until now.
Then I opened the card and found it signed Him and Her.
Signed Him, the widower. Signed Her, the deceased.
I decided that I must have not been paying close attention when First Grandson and Marine Son both told me about the death. I thought it must have been First Grandson's grandfather's mother.
I was, gotta say, freaked out, but also embarrassed that I'd made such a mistake. And I was oh so grateful that I hadn't sent the condolence cards.
However, tonight I decided to double-check. Marine Son is away from home doing training and I certainly wasn't going to call First Grandson or his mom. So I went to the net, plugged in the appropriate info, and...
discovered that the kind lady who sent me the Christmas card did indeed die in July.
Either it really is the husband who's been writing out the cards all these years and he simply can't let go of her, or she was one of those hyper-organized types who wrote them out well in advance and her husband decided to mail them anyway.
In any event, I feel deeply uncomfortable about this.
But I put the card out with the others anyway.
Merry Christmas, Him and Her.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Time and loss
My work office is a mess. I moved out of the old one and into the new in August, in media res: trying to pack, unpack, plan, and start a new semester all at once. However, the most immediate chores always win the Bitty's Time Sweepstakes, so the clutter just keeps cluttering.
Little by little I unpack and rearrange: a pile, a box, an envelope here and there. I recently came across an envelope of photos that were formerly taped to my old office's wall and in them was a particularly beloved one of Grammie and her lifelong friend Reeney (who deserves a post all of her own someday), taken in my kitchen on May 20, 1995. (I know this because once upon a time I properly labeled my photos...). At the time, Grammie was a robust 82; Reeney was a few years older. I propped the photo in front of the monitor.
Looking at it today, I realized that it really is a record of the past: Reeney died in 1998, Grammie last year. I threw away the miniblinds a few months ago, and the chairs the ladies are sitting in now wait in my living room for me to take them to the local women's shelter thrift store this weekend. The only tangible objects in the photo still in my life are the door handle that peeks out from behind the blinds, the coffee mug in front of Reeney, and the blouse Grammie is wearing. (I kept a suitcase full of her blouses, a time capsule that comforts me even though I haven't opened it once since I packed it over a year ago.)
The things and people that surround us seem so permanent because we see them day after day.
And then suddenly we look around and everything is different.
Little by little I unpack and rearrange: a pile, a box, an envelope here and there. I recently came across an envelope of photos that were formerly taped to my old office's wall and in them was a particularly beloved one of Grammie and her lifelong friend Reeney (who deserves a post all of her own someday), taken in my kitchen on May 20, 1995. (I know this because once upon a time I properly labeled my photos...). At the time, Grammie was a robust 82; Reeney was a few years older. I propped the photo in front of the monitor.
Looking at it today, I realized that it really is a record of the past: Reeney died in 1998, Grammie last year. I threw away the miniblinds a few months ago, and the chairs the ladies are sitting in now wait in my living room for me to take them to the local women's shelter thrift store this weekend. The only tangible objects in the photo still in my life are the door handle that peeks out from behind the blinds, the coffee mug in front of Reeney, and the blouse Grammie is wearing. (I kept a suitcase full of her blouses, a time capsule that comforts me even though I haven't opened it once since I packed it over a year ago.)
The things and people that surround us seem so permanent because we see them day after day.
And then suddenly we look around and everything is different.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
JJ: In Memoriam (Wednesday Cat Blogging from the lost files of Bitty)
I found this, in draft form, in my archives tonight. I wrote it on March 11, 2006 and I'm not sure why I didn't publish it. I think I might have been looking for a certain picture...
Well, JJ deserves her due, ten and a half months late though it may be. Here's the post:
One evening more than twelve years ago, I went to the grocery store and, like many people, came home with more than I'd planned.
Snaking out of a neighboring subdivision, a few yards from a major highway, I saw in the darkness a glint that I knew very well: light reflected from a cat's eye. In the faint street light huddled the tiniest brown homeless cat. I pulled over and tried to lure the little one toward me. She (as I would later learn) would have none of it. I was terrified that she'd get run over, but she refused to be caught. So I continued on to the store, purchased one can of cat food, and returned to the scene. The little one was still cowering near the side of the road, and while she was still skeptical, she wasn't then -- or ever -- one to resist food.
I took her home to keep her safe, only until I could find her a good home.
Apparently, though, she found one on her own, because she never left us until two weeks ago today, when I had to have her put to sleep. Even now she's with us, buried in the back yard.
Back then, we'd already had major shakeups in our cat population. That Labor Day, our Semmi was murdered by a kid (we presume) with a BB gun. We found him lying dead in our backyard, headed toward home, obviously trying to get to us, whom he thought could help him. We found him too late. That reduced our cat rollcall to one, our alpha male Shadow, who literally took to his bed for two weeks, having (we've always presumed) witnessed Semmi's death. (Our cats no longer go outside.) In my grief, the next weekend I stopped in at a house displaying a Free Kittens sign and brought home my beauty queen Molly. Shadow took poorly to his new roommate, and to this date she steers wide of him. Only a few weeks later, then, I came home with this additional interloper.
The first few nights we kept the homeless one locked up in the bathroom, but ours was then a family of three kids and two other cats, and this became just plain impractical.
There's no way to know how long the little one lived on her wits, but when I took her to the vet, I was told that her teeth indicated she was much older than she looked. She looked like a ten-week old. She had a hole through her ear, as if she'd been in a fight with another cat, or maybe more likely due to its placement, a fool kid had pierced it. Her sides bulged as if she were pregnant, although she wasn't (she remained mishapen her whole life; strangers would always assume she was pregnant). She was the chalky brown color of a Hershey's bar that had been in the refrigerator. She'd been through some hardships, so integrating into the home of a grouchy alpha male was simply no big deal. In fact, the little one, whom we eventually named JJ when we gave up the pretense that we weren't keeping her, took an immediate liking to the big antagonistic black cat. She would repeatedly nudge against him as if to insist that they become friends. And they did.
In those first few weeks, thanks to decent nutrition, JJ's coat turned from brown to jet black. (Even at the time of her final illness, her fur was soft as a powder puff.) This made her look like Shadow's shadow, as if she was destined to be his new soul mate.
Part of my delay in getting this posted was, oddly, my problem finding appropriate pictures. In the olden days when we used film cameras and my children were at home, I'd develop rolls of film and find about 14 pictures I had taken of children, etc. --and ten cat pictures taken by the kids. Now they all seem to be...where?
Probably the funniest thing J ever did was try to catch the cats on TV. From time to time I'd borrow a video camera. When I filmed my frisky new kittens playing outside and played it back on the TV, J noticed (as she got older, she quit watching TV, though). I don't remember how she managed to reach the screen in the beginning, but after that, we would pull a chair up to the TV, turn on the video, and watch her go. (I look at this picture and see that old TV, that old VCR, that old stereo...)
Here's the best of the last of the pictures I took of J, the day after Christmas. She's on the left, trying to nap with Shadow (napping together is what they did with 50% of their time).
Well, JJ deserves her due, ten and a half months late though it may be. Here's the post:
One evening more than twelve years ago, I went to the grocery store and, like many people, came home with more than I'd planned.
Snaking out of a neighboring subdivision, a few yards from a major highway, I saw in the darkness a glint that I knew very well: light reflected from a cat's eye. In the faint street light huddled the tiniest brown homeless cat. I pulled over and tried to lure the little one toward me. She (as I would later learn) would have none of it. I was terrified that she'd get run over, but she refused to be caught. So I continued on to the store, purchased one can of cat food, and returned to the scene. The little one was still cowering near the side of the road, and while she was still skeptical, she wasn't then -- or ever -- one to resist food.
I took her home to keep her safe, only until I could find her a good home.
Apparently, though, she found one on her own, because she never left us until two weeks ago today, when I had to have her put to sleep. Even now she's with us, buried in the back yard.
Back then, we'd already had major shakeups in our cat population. That Labor Day, our Semmi was murdered by a kid (we presume) with a BB gun. We found him lying dead in our backyard, headed toward home, obviously trying to get to us, whom he thought could help him. We found him too late. That reduced our cat rollcall to one, our alpha male Shadow, who literally took to his bed for two weeks, having (we've always presumed) witnessed Semmi's death. (Our cats no longer go outside.) In my grief, the next weekend I stopped in at a house displaying a Free Kittens sign and brought home my beauty queen Molly. Shadow took poorly to his new roommate, and to this date she steers wide of him. Only a few weeks later, then, I came home with this additional interloper.
The first few nights we kept the homeless one locked up in the bathroom, but ours was then a family of three kids and two other cats, and this became just plain impractical.
There's no way to know how long the little one lived on her wits, but when I took her to the vet, I was told that her teeth indicated she was much older than she looked. She looked like a ten-week old. She had a hole through her ear, as if she'd been in a fight with another cat, or maybe more likely due to its placement, a fool kid had pierced it. Her sides bulged as if she were pregnant, although she wasn't (she remained mishapen her whole life; strangers would always assume she was pregnant). She was the chalky brown color of a Hershey's bar that had been in the refrigerator. She'd been through some hardships, so integrating into the home of a grouchy alpha male was simply no big deal. In fact, the little one, whom we eventually named JJ when we gave up the pretense that we weren't keeping her, took an immediate liking to the big antagonistic black cat. She would repeatedly nudge against him as if to insist that they become friends. And they did.
In those first few weeks, thanks to decent nutrition, JJ's coat turned from brown to jet black. (Even at the time of her final illness, her fur was soft as a powder puff.) This made her look like Shadow's shadow, as if she was destined to be his new soul mate.
Part of my delay in getting this posted was, oddly, my problem finding appropriate pictures. In the olden days when we used film cameras and my children were at home, I'd develop rolls of film and find about 14 pictures I had taken of children, etc. --and ten cat pictures taken by the kids. Now they all seem to be...where?
Probably the funniest thing J ever did was try to catch the cats on TV. From time to time I'd borrow a video camera. When I filmed my frisky new kittens playing outside and played it back on the TV, J noticed (as she got older, she quit watching TV, though). I don't remember how she managed to reach the screen in the beginning, but after that, we would pull a chair up to the TV, turn on the video, and watch her go. (I look at this picture and see that old TV, that old VCR, that old stereo...)
Here's the best of the last of the pictures I took of J, the day after Christmas. She's on the left, trying to nap with Shadow (napping together is what they did with 50% of their time).
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Don't Send Flowers
Twin Sister Number One called this morning.
Her father, my stepfather, is dying. Will die. Soon.
I'm feeling quite a peculiar mix of emotions, none of which is exactly sorrow. She says she feels nothing.
Imagine what hell for children might be. That was our childhood, except as far as I know, none of us was sexually abused.
The story has only one moral: alcoholism is a bad, bad thing for everyone involved.
Update: And later in the day he died, never having regained consciousness. Because the family was not allowed in ICU during certain hours, everyone had gone home to take a break.
And so he died alone.
Her father, my stepfather, is dying. Will die. Soon.
I'm feeling quite a peculiar mix of emotions, none of which is exactly sorrow. She says she feels nothing.
Imagine what hell for children might be. That was our childhood, except as far as I know, none of us was sexually abused.
The story has only one moral: alcoholism is a bad, bad thing for everyone involved.
Update: And later in the day he died, never having regained consciousness. Because the family was not allowed in ICU during certain hours, everyone had gone home to take a break.
And so he died alone.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Way behind on my blogging: bullet point edition
Hi, guys.
I just haven't had the time/energy/enthusiasm/(noun of your choice) to get up to date in the bloggy world. Therefore, I've decided to bullet point my news, and maybe I'll expound later and maybe I won't.
I just haven't had the time/energy/enthusiasm/(noun of your choice) to get up to date in the bloggy world. Therefore, I've decided to bullet point my news, and maybe I'll expound later and maybe I won't.
- Monday we had to send Shadow, our alpha and omega cat, on to cat heaven. I'm bummed, and this is probably the main reason I haven't been blogging. We sent JJ on ahead in February, just weeks after Grammie died. I never eulogized JJ -- never even mentioned her death here before now -- and now I'm dragging my heels on Shad. Both will get a proper eulogy from me eventually. (I'm trying really hard not to make this the all-death-all-the-time blog.)
- Still recuperating from my month away from home. Still cleaning up the physical mess, too, the one I left behind due to a semester of crisis management and the additional mess made by Tall Son in my absence. I'm making progress, however.
- Tall Son has officially moved out, although he hasn't fully vacated his room or otherwise stored his belongings. It's much easier to keep the house clean when it's just me.
- But it's not just me. I still have one cat -- Molly. She's probably a little stunned to find herself an Only Cat. She's never been that before. In fact, the last time I had only one cat in the house was 17 years ago.
- Had a wonderful lunch today with most of my descendants and their spouses, lacking only Marine Son and Corpsman Son-in-Law. I think Indian Princess (daughter-in-law) thinks Red Lobster is my favorite restaurant, so that's where we went. (But really, it isn't. Still, the salmon was tasty.) Tall Son has a killer digital camera, and we made little videos, mostly starring the youngest grandson. That's what happens when you're two; you're automatically the cutest. (Then you get older....)
- The Grand Canyon is grand. Not that you needed me to tell you. We pretty much considered this our scouting mission. We got a good look at the canyon, but with a four-year-old and (all but) two-year-old in tow, we couldn't do stuff like hike, raft, etc. Next time I'll have money and take a helicopter ride. There will be a next time.
- Before I left, I told many people, including Waveflux; he wished me a good trip and asked me to bring him something back. I took this request very seriously, but once on the road I wasn't quite sure what to get. (If I'd gone to the Democratic National Convention, f'r instance, no problem.) In the end, I settled not for a physical object but an item to add to his list of things to see before the final check-out. But revelation of that item will have to wait until later. :)
- Something to look forward to: Alanna and I are going to see the Prairie Home Companion movie on Thursday. I'm excited about this like others get excited about Star Wars and Lord of the Rings movies. Woo-hoo! Only four more days!
- School starts for me again on the 22nd. I am NOT counting those days.
I feel better now, having dipped my toe back in the blog pool. I think my blog-block might be over.
Actual photo taken by me of the Grand Canyon. Yes, it looks like all those other photos on the web, but I took this one! I was really there!
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
The post I wish I didn't have to write
I can remember almost every syllable of the last real conversation we had, two weeks ago today.
It hadn’t been his semester. One thing after another had gone wrong from the very beginning, some of it his own doing and some of it stupid dumb bad luck. He was without job, without money, without car (all problems seemed to revolve around that last missing item, an unfortunate necessity in our area). He was begging rides to school and it wasn’t always working out so sometimes he missed class. He wasn’t making excuses, though, just providing explanations. He was willing to take his lumps. He planned to take the summer off school, reluctantly go back home to mom and dad (who live on the local outskirts), get a job near “home,” and essentially push his reset button. He had applied for a student loan and was going to start afresh in the fall.
He hadn’t had these kinds of troubles when we first met last fall. He showed up for every class, got things in on time, and presumably had a job, car, and at least enough money to eat on. He was one of a boisterous posse in the back of the classroom, boisterous in the right way. Some of them already knew each other, some of them didn’t, but they were full of energy and always had something lively and pertinent to add to the discussion. This semester he sat front and off center, directly in front of the teacher’s desk. In the fall he took my class by chance; this time he took it by choice. He liked me; the feeling was mutual.
And now something had gone haywire with his laptop and he couldn’t get it to come up and he couldn’t get his paper out. He was going to interface it in some way with someone else’s computer and read the hard drive. So, would I let him e-mail the paper late? Sure, I said. Sometimes this stuff is true and sometimes it isn’t, but as long as any one student doesn’t take advantage, the answer is sure.
We were stuffing this “conference” into the time between two of my classes because his ride situation hadn’t allowed him to come to his scheduled conference. I gathered up my stuff and we took it to the room next door, my next classroom. I mentioned being thirsty and he offered to go down to the machines and get me some water. I handed him a dollar and off he went. I’d have bought him a drink, too, but I only had a dollar. Now I wish I had found some change somewhere and treated him, too.
When he came back, we chatted some more and then he asked if he could use my cell phone since he no longer had one of those, either. Whoever it was he needed didn’t or wouldn’t answer the phone, perhaps due to the unfamiliar number.
We chatted a little more, he asked me to say hello to Tiffany K, who was in this next class, and we said our goodbyes.
The last time I saw him was two days later, Thursday, but that was our last real day of class and it was chaotic. Everyone had some sort of business they wanted to conduct before and after class. The only thing I can say for sure is that he said hello to me when he arrived in class and he said goodbye when he left. Only now in retrospect do I realize that he is only one of two students that I can say that of: he always said hello and goodbye.
The paper didn’t show up as promised. I was so busy that I decided to just process his grade – probably failing without it – and we could get together about it and do a grade change later. I had to get the grades in and didn’t have time to stop and play private investigator, tracking down missing papers.
One of the things he said in that last long conversation was that his luck sure stank this semester, and I said to him – dear god – that sometimes having all the bad luck at once is a good thing. You get it and you live through it and you get it over with and maybe you learn from it.
But I guess sometimes you don’t.
He was killed in a car accident just over a week ago.
How did I find out? I may never forgive my school for this. I was checking student numbers for his class, and his entry had changed: he had withdrawn because he was deceased. That’s how I learned he was dead: his electronic record changed. Usually when students die or otherwise meet tragedy, we get a campus-wide e-mail. Not this time for some horrible reason. I had to find out by data entry.
He was a passenger in an SUV full of kids and apparently the only one not wearing his seatbelt. When the vehicle flipped, he was ejected. I missed hearing it on the news because I hadn’t had time to watch the news lately. He had been dead almost a week and buried for three days before I knew. I didn’t get to go to his funeral.
Now I have two more things to do. I need to write to his parents and tell them what they already know, what a really terrific guy he was. And because I forgot to do it that day, I ought to send an e-mail to Tiffany K and tell her he said hello.
It hadn’t been his semester. One thing after another had gone wrong from the very beginning, some of it his own doing and some of it stupid dumb bad luck. He was without job, without money, without car (all problems seemed to revolve around that last missing item, an unfortunate necessity in our area). He was begging rides to school and it wasn’t always working out so sometimes he missed class. He wasn’t making excuses, though, just providing explanations. He was willing to take his lumps. He planned to take the summer off school, reluctantly go back home to mom and dad (who live on the local outskirts), get a job near “home,” and essentially push his reset button. He had applied for a student loan and was going to start afresh in the fall.
He hadn’t had these kinds of troubles when we first met last fall. He showed up for every class, got things in on time, and presumably had a job, car, and at least enough money to eat on. He was one of a boisterous posse in the back of the classroom, boisterous in the right way. Some of them already knew each other, some of them didn’t, but they were full of energy and always had something lively and pertinent to add to the discussion. This semester he sat front and off center, directly in front of the teacher’s desk. In the fall he took my class by chance; this time he took it by choice. He liked me; the feeling was mutual.
And now something had gone haywire with his laptop and he couldn’t get it to come up and he couldn’t get his paper out. He was going to interface it in some way with someone else’s computer and read the hard drive. So, would I let him e-mail the paper late? Sure, I said. Sometimes this stuff is true and sometimes it isn’t, but as long as any one student doesn’t take advantage, the answer is sure.
We were stuffing this “conference” into the time between two of my classes because his ride situation hadn’t allowed him to come to his scheduled conference. I gathered up my stuff and we took it to the room next door, my next classroom. I mentioned being thirsty and he offered to go down to the machines and get me some water. I handed him a dollar and off he went. I’d have bought him a drink, too, but I only had a dollar. Now I wish I had found some change somewhere and treated him, too.
When he came back, we chatted some more and then he asked if he could use my cell phone since he no longer had one of those, either. Whoever it was he needed didn’t or wouldn’t answer the phone, perhaps due to the unfamiliar number.
We chatted a little more, he asked me to say hello to Tiffany K, who was in this next class, and we said our goodbyes.
The last time I saw him was two days later, Thursday, but that was our last real day of class and it was chaotic. Everyone had some sort of business they wanted to conduct before and after class. The only thing I can say for sure is that he said hello to me when he arrived in class and he said goodbye when he left. Only now in retrospect do I realize that he is only one of two students that I can say that of: he always said hello and goodbye.
The paper didn’t show up as promised. I was so busy that I decided to just process his grade – probably failing without it – and we could get together about it and do a grade change later. I had to get the grades in and didn’t have time to stop and play private investigator, tracking down missing papers.
One of the things he said in that last long conversation was that his luck sure stank this semester, and I said to him – dear god – that sometimes having all the bad luck at once is a good thing. You get it and you live through it and you get it over with and maybe you learn from it.
But I guess sometimes you don’t.
He was killed in a car accident just over a week ago.
How did I find out? I may never forgive my school for this. I was checking student numbers for his class, and his entry had changed: he had withdrawn because he was deceased. That’s how I learned he was dead: his electronic record changed. Usually when students die or otherwise meet tragedy, we get a campus-wide e-mail. Not this time for some horrible reason. I had to find out by data entry.
He was a passenger in an SUV full of kids and apparently the only one not wearing his seatbelt. When the vehicle flipped, he was ejected. I missed hearing it on the news because I hadn’t had time to watch the news lately. He had been dead almost a week and buried for three days before I knew. I didn’t get to go to his funeral.
Now I have two more things to do. I need to write to his parents and tell them what they already know, what a really terrific guy he was. And because I forgot to do it that day, I ought to send an e-mail to Tiffany K and tell her he said hello.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
I keep forgetting...
Especially on the weekends.
The thought lasts the tiniest fraction of a second, not long enough to form a complete sentence in my head (as if I think in complete sentences):
Oh, I need to call Grammie.
Except of course, she's been dead for over a month, so, of course, I can't.
Tomorrow is her birthday.
The thought lasts the tiniest fraction of a second, not long enough to form a complete sentence in my head (as if I think in complete sentences):
Oh, I need to call Grammie.
Except of course, she's been dead for over a month, so, of course, I can't.
Tomorrow is her birthday.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
To everything there is a season
Grammie died Friday morning. I have no adequate words of my own, so for now I'll borrow a few:
To everything there is a season
A time for every purpose under heaven
A time to be born, and a time to die...
A time to break down, and a time to build up
A time to weep, and a time to laugh
A time to mourn, and a time to dance...
That sums up where we are right now: sad, but joyful that we had her in our lives and that she's no longer suffering.
Proper elegy later, probably much later.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
The bitter with the sweet
Christmas was a gentle day; even Tall Son, whose girlfriend recently broke his heart, seemed to find the day pleasant, even if he would rather have spent it with the woman who has sent him away. Far-Away Daughter -- still far away -- and her family were ill on Christmas Eve, but recovered by the big day, and she and her husband, Semi-Doc, had an exciting time with the kiddies and her inlaws. Marine Son and his wife, Indian Princess, drove down just for the day. We ate until it hurt, we opened gifts (a stunned Bitty received a new computer via gift cards and an IOU; we picked it up yesterday), and then overwhelmed me napped. While I was sleeping, Marine Son picked up his boy, First Grandson, and later in the day the three of them drove home. First Grandson is spending the week with his father and stepmother. A good time was had by all.
Before Marine Son and family went home, we called Grammie. Uncle G answered the phone. When I said I was glad he was still there so I'd get a chance to talk to him, he said softly, "Oh yes, we're all still here. We can't leave her alone any more." When I talked to Grammie she sounded weary (as she had the last time we'd spoken, on the 23rd), but she sounded cheerful. She catalogued all the people who had called her -- quite a long list since my mother alone has 10 children -- and when she was finished, she catalogued them at least two more times. Then I talked to Uncle D, who promised to call me privately later to tell me what was really going on.
My mother called me yesterday. Uncle D called her and asked her to pass the message on. Grammie must go to a nursing home. She has reached a point -- details not necessary -- that she needs someone nearby at all times, 24 hours a day. Uncle D and his saint of a wife, A, wanted to take her to their home, but she refused. So sometime -- very soon -- she will leave her home for good and pass into the care of strangers. I hope they will be kind strangers. Although there are so many nursing home nightmare stories, I've also heard that if relatives are involved, the patients get good care. My uncles will probably be there daily...and none of us expect her stay to be very long.
Death brings people together in all sorts of interesting ways. Because of Grammie's cancer, Marine Son and I went to see her in October, and in doing so, I reconnected with my uncles and Aunt P, and I met Uncle D's wife. I never got around to writing about that. Maybe I will someday; maybe what I'm saying now is all I need to say about it. Although I sent Christmas cards to them over the years, and when Grammie would be visiting any of us, she'd call the others and make us talk to one another (an awkward situation since we didn't know each other well enough to do much more than discuss the weather), I hadn't seen my uncles and Aunt P since I was a teenager. That was a very long time ago. So Grammie's illness has reconnected me with these relatives and made me a member of the family again.
I've also had long conversations with people whose loved ones have died like Grammie, not suddenly but due to lingering illness, and their stories are remarkably the same. One friend described it as the reverse of birth: the dying person acts much like the newborn, sleeping all the time, unable to converse coherently, dependent on others for food and basic hygiene.
I haven't called Grammie yet. I'm afraid I can't without crying. But I must before the end of the day.
This is life, though: great joy and love alongside deep sorrow. The secret of life, I suppose, is learning to deal with that juxtaposition.
Before Marine Son and family went home, we called Grammie. Uncle G answered the phone. When I said I was glad he was still there so I'd get a chance to talk to him, he said softly, "Oh yes, we're all still here. We can't leave her alone any more." When I talked to Grammie she sounded weary (as she had the last time we'd spoken, on the 23rd), but she sounded cheerful. She catalogued all the people who had called her -- quite a long list since my mother alone has 10 children -- and when she was finished, she catalogued them at least two more times. Then I talked to Uncle D, who promised to call me privately later to tell me what was really going on.
My mother called me yesterday. Uncle D called her and asked her to pass the message on. Grammie must go to a nursing home. She has reached a point -- details not necessary -- that she needs someone nearby at all times, 24 hours a day. Uncle D and his saint of a wife, A, wanted to take her to their home, but she refused. So sometime -- very soon -- she will leave her home for good and pass into the care of strangers. I hope they will be kind strangers. Although there are so many nursing home nightmare stories, I've also heard that if relatives are involved, the patients get good care. My uncles will probably be there daily...and none of us expect her stay to be very long.
Death brings people together in all sorts of interesting ways. Because of Grammie's cancer, Marine Son and I went to see her in October, and in doing so, I reconnected with my uncles and Aunt P, and I met Uncle D's wife. I never got around to writing about that. Maybe I will someday; maybe what I'm saying now is all I need to say about it. Although I sent Christmas cards to them over the years, and when Grammie would be visiting any of us, she'd call the others and make us talk to one another (an awkward situation since we didn't know each other well enough to do much more than discuss the weather), I hadn't seen my uncles and Aunt P since I was a teenager. That was a very long time ago. So Grammie's illness has reconnected me with these relatives and made me a member of the family again.
I've also had long conversations with people whose loved ones have died like Grammie, not suddenly but due to lingering illness, and their stories are remarkably the same. One friend described it as the reverse of birth: the dying person acts much like the newborn, sleeping all the time, unable to converse coherently, dependent on others for food and basic hygiene.
I haven't called Grammie yet. I'm afraid I can't without crying. But I must before the end of the day.
This is life, though: great joy and love alongside deep sorrow. The secret of life, I suppose, is learning to deal with that juxtaposition.
Monday, September 26, 2005
The culture of death
I've been telling colleagues and students about my grandmother's terminal illness, not to garner sympathy, but for pragmatic reasons. I need to find someone to cover my classes for a week so I can visit her, and I need simply to explain my sudden, seemingly random bouts of teariness.
Oh man.
As I said in my earlier post, I've been almost weirdly untouched by death. A very few friends and dear but not intimate family members; sweet though remote great-grandparents; a baby sister who had barely begun life. No one truly, truly close until now. Because I teach very young adults, no semester (indeed, almost no month) goes by without someone's grandparents, and sadly even parents, dying. Some of this falls into the joke category. There are those students whose grandparents routinely die when papers and projects are due. But most of it is genuine. I've seen real pain and confusion on these students' faces, in their eyes, in their words. I've even cried with them. I've offered sympathy and an ear for mourning friends. Still, I've only experienced this as an outsider. Until now.
Now I, too, am a member of the culture of death.
The death or impending death of a loved one is new territory and difficult to navigate. The maps seem to be disjointed and printed in Russian. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to act? The two conversations I've had with Grammie since I heard the news have been weirdly full of laughter and optimism. For instance, it's damned funny that her step-great-granddaughter B (who never visits) has been by the apartment like the vulture she is to sniff around at the spoils of death. Grammie was so alarmed by B's coveting of a particular figurine that she insisted she get "later" that after B left, Grammie promptly wrapped it up and gave it to V, another great-granddaughter. B's tasteless behavior is occasion for a good belly laugh; Grammie's checkmate is even funnier. My son M and I are going to travel to see her in a few weeks (God, please let her still be ok in a few weeks), and she was thrilled by the news; it gives her something to look forward to.
Grammie doesn't want to die. And I am utterly unable to imagine the world without her any more than I can imagine the world suddenly without gravity.
Now students are not telling me stories of the parents and grandparents who just died or are dying and whose deaths are interfering with their schoolwork; they're coming to me in droves telling me about the parents and grandparents who died a few months ago. They're still mourning, but they're also joyful over the parts that were blessings: the swift deaths with no suffering; the situations like mine where there was still precious time to say and do things that ought to be said and done. These people know what I don't fully, yet: what the road ahead looks like and how it feels to travel it. Today I have shared a half a river of tears with people I only slightly know; I would never have considered doing this last week.
However, now, like it or not, I too am a member of the culture of death.
Oh man.
As I said in my earlier post, I've been almost weirdly untouched by death. A very few friends and dear but not intimate family members; sweet though remote great-grandparents; a baby sister who had barely begun life. No one truly, truly close until now. Because I teach very young adults, no semester (indeed, almost no month) goes by without someone's grandparents, and sadly even parents, dying. Some of this falls into the joke category. There are those students whose grandparents routinely die when papers and projects are due. But most of it is genuine. I've seen real pain and confusion on these students' faces, in their eyes, in their words. I've even cried with them. I've offered sympathy and an ear for mourning friends. Still, I've only experienced this as an outsider. Until now.
Now I, too, am a member of the culture of death.
The death or impending death of a loved one is new territory and difficult to navigate. The maps seem to be disjointed and printed in Russian. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to act? The two conversations I've had with Grammie since I heard the news have been weirdly full of laughter and optimism. For instance, it's damned funny that her step-great-granddaughter B (who never visits) has been by the apartment like the vulture she is to sniff around at the spoils of death. Grammie was so alarmed by B's coveting of a particular figurine that she insisted she get "later" that after B left, Grammie promptly wrapped it up and gave it to V, another great-granddaughter. B's tasteless behavior is occasion for a good belly laugh; Grammie's checkmate is even funnier. My son M and I are going to travel to see her in a few weeks (God, please let her still be ok in a few weeks), and she was thrilled by the news; it gives her something to look forward to.
Grammie doesn't want to die. And I am utterly unable to imagine the world without her any more than I can imagine the world suddenly without gravity.
Now students are not telling me stories of the parents and grandparents who just died or are dying and whose deaths are interfering with their schoolwork; they're coming to me in droves telling me about the parents and grandparents who died a few months ago. They're still mourning, but they're also joyful over the parts that were blessings: the swift deaths with no suffering; the situations like mine where there was still precious time to say and do things that ought to be said and done. These people know what I don't fully, yet: what the road ahead looks like and how it feels to travel it. Today I have shared a half a river of tears with people I only slightly know; I would never have considered doing this last week.
However, now, like it or not, I too am a member of the culture of death.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
For Grammie
Sometimes when I was young – ten or so – in bed at night I would think about the fact that my grandmother was old, and that she would die, and soon. I’d cry myself to sleep over this inevitability. I was big on imagination and small on perspective at that age. Fifty certainly seemed old and next door to the grave.
Yesterday I learned that my grandmother, now 92, has pancreatic cancer, for which there is nothing to be done. She will die, and soon.
Considering my age (and simple math will now reveal that to you), I’ve been remarkably untouched by death. I’ve certainly been aware of this. Only a handful of people who were extremely close to me have died. I’m also certainly aware that many people have never known their grandparents at all, let alone have known them well into middle age.
Maybe this – this long lifetime with a grandmother -- is why this news is so surreal. It’s as if suddenly the sky turned purple and the grass orange. Of course the situation is recognizable, but it’s also utterly foreign. My grandmother has frequently declared her intention to live to be 100. This is obviously not to be.
So in bed last night I tried not to think about the fact that my grandmother is old, and sick, and that she will die, and soon. And I cried myself to sleep over this inevitability.
Yesterday I learned that my grandmother, now 92, has pancreatic cancer, for which there is nothing to be done. She will die, and soon.
Considering my age (and simple math will now reveal that to you), I’ve been remarkably untouched by death. I’ve certainly been aware of this. Only a handful of people who were extremely close to me have died. I’m also certainly aware that many people have never known their grandparents at all, let alone have known them well into middle age.
Maybe this – this long lifetime with a grandmother -- is why this news is so surreal. It’s as if suddenly the sky turned purple and the grass orange. Of course the situation is recognizable, but it’s also utterly foreign. My grandmother has frequently declared her intention to live to be 100. This is obviously not to be.
So in bed last night I tried not to think about the fact that my grandmother is old, and sick, and that she will die, and soon. And I cried myself to sleep over this inevitability.
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