Sandi put away all the Christmas decorations yesterday. If it were just up to me, I might leave the decorations up all year all (well, at least longer). Because Christmas always makes me think of my grandmother.
While I have lots of stories involving my grandmother, and will write them all soon, I am starting at the end of her life. It was one of the hardest things I've had to do to say goodbye to her and could only bring myself to do it out of sheer love. It gutted me personally to lose her, the one person I knew would always be on my side, no matter what.
My grandmother, Gwen to
most of the world, Gwenie to her close friends and relatives, but Nana to me
(and Nan when I grew older), passed away on June 7, 2004, just 2 weeks shy of
her 98th birthday. She was the one constant in my life. My rock, my shield, my
hero. It's been 16 years since she died, and I still talk to her every day, get
teary eyed when I think of her and miss her all the time.
Once, when I was out
visiting her, she asked me to help her go through a box of photos and mementos.
I came across a photo of my mother. Ever since my mother died, my grandmother
has not mentioned her to me. I knew Nana thought about her, quite a bit in fact,
but she never discussed my mother with me. But that day, Nana started
talking about her. She wanted me to know that my mother loved me, despite all
that went on before her death; that it was her "disease" that lashed
out at me, not my mother. It freaked me out a little. I think that Nana thought
she was going to die imminently and wanted to be sure to get a few things off
her mind. The next day, when I made my daily phone call to her, after answering
the phone she said, in a somewhat annoyed tone of voice "I don't know why I'm still alive".
For
years, she would continue to say "I don't know why I'm still alive",
and I would always reply "because I need you". To be honest, we all
thought that once my grandfather, Papa, died, she wouldn't be far behind, as
she was dependent on him for everything. She lost almost all her
retirement savings (through no fault of either Nana or Papa, another story to
be told), but still had Papa's pension and social security. Instead of giving
up, she picked herself
"up by the bootstraps", learned how to balance a checking account,
moved to Grass Valley to a senior apartment to be closer to Papa's sister, Lil,
and me, a sophomore at Humboldt State University at the time, and made a life
for herself. She outlived him by over a quarter of a century.
I thought I was being
kind and loving by telling her how much I needed her. But as time went on,
and she became bed bound, in a nursing home (where she never wanted to end up),
in a state far away from me or any of her other grandchildren, I realized that my
reply wasn't kind or loving. In reality, I was
prolonging her suffering, since Nana would do anything for me, including
trudging through life if she thought that's what she needed to do to keep me
safe. She was a tough old gal, I'll give her that. She outlived her mother,
father, 7 siblings, her husband, her only son and daughter and her only
grandson.
After Jim (her son) died
in 1996, I became her medical decision maker. She lived in a nursing home
in Grass Valley, California, and I lived half-way across the nation, in another
country called Texas. Her niece, Vanessa, worked at the nursing home, and was
incredibly good to my grandmother. And I would go out to visit her every 2
months or so over a weekend. When the nursing home called to tell me she wouldn't
eat, and wanted to give her medication to boost her appetite, I agreed. But
when they then called recommending a feeding tube, I declined. I just couldn’t
force her to eat. And when she stopped drinking water, I knew that it was her
time, even if she didn't. I had to go tell her that I knew and give her my
permission to die. It sounds somewhat odd when I say my permission, as if
anyone needs that. But I truly believe that she did need to hear me say the
words, otherwise she would have hung on until doomsday if I'd asked her to.
I flew out to see her on
Saturday, June 5, 2004, and she wasn't responsive when I arrived, sleeping most
of the day and barely arousable. She just kept hanging on despite no food or
water for over a week (it’s where I got my determination from, I’m sure of it).
I sat holding her hand and talking with her all day. And I read her the letter
below. I don't know if she heard me or not, but I read it twice just in case. I
would have read it more, but for some reason my throat kept closing up and my
eyes wouldn't stop leaking. I left the letter with her nurse, asking if someone
could read the letter to her again each day.
The next morning,
Sunday, June 6, 2004, I flew back to Dallas. Later that evening, the nursing
home called. I was sure they were calling to tell me she had passed away. But
it was the hospice nurse calling, telling me that they all read the letter and
the whole nursing staff was in tears. She promised me she would read it to Nana
every day. Nana woke up Sunday evening, and the hospice nurse read her the
letter. The next morning, the nurse called to let me know that Nana had died in
her sleep. I'm hoping she knew what a difference she made in this world..
Dear Nan,
I am writing this letter
to you in your twilight hours. You are 97 years young at heart, and are
approaching the end of life. I will miss you more than you could imagine, but I
know it’s time for you to move on. You lived well, and you lived by example and
you will always be in my life. From the eyes of an adult and the heart of a
child, these are only a few of my favorite memories of my time with you.
I remember lots of hugs
and kisses. You always told me how proud you were of me, even when I hadn’t
really done anything of substance. I could always see the pride in your face.
And I always felt it in my heart. You loved me like no one else ever did, and I
will never forget the feeling. You were my hero. The one who rescued me time
and again-when I came home from the hospital, when I was sick, when my family
left me and went on vacations, or just when I wanted to come over-you were
always there.
You taught me how to
play cards. I remember countless hours when I was very young of sitting at your
kitchen table in the little house on Padilla Street, playing gin rummy and
having a “highball” of 7-Up. Amazingly, I always won, and you’d throw your
cards down and say “Oh I can’t believe you beat me again! You little stinker!”
You made me feel smart and confident.
When I was a little
older, I remember countless more hours playing double solitaire with you. Most
of the time I would win, but you’d make sure you won a couple of games just so
I didn’t catch on you were letting me win. I miss those card games.
I remember watching you
cook, and thinking you were the best cook in the whole world. I still believe
that, because you always cooked with love. You never made it seem like it was a
burden to you. You always made sure to cook my favorite meals, or maybe they
were my favorites because you cooked them for me. I can still smell and taste
the breaded pork chops baked on sauerkraut-my all-time favorite. Your pot
roast-which I could never quite duplicate-was tender and juicy and almost
melted in your mouth. Your creamed onions, strawberry shortcake, and angel food
cake. One of my favorite food memories is your chop suey on Christmas Eve. We
would come over to your house on Padilla on Christmas Eve, and you would make
chop suey-with beans and noodles and beef-I don’t know what all was in it-but I
can taste it. I never wanted to go home those evenings, even though I knew
Santa Claus was coming in the morning. Staying with you was like having Santa
Claus around all year.
I remember one Christmas
when I was in Huntington Memorial Hospital with pneumonia. I was very sad, and
alone. And bright and early on Christmas morning you came into my room and
surprised me. You brought me presents and we spent the morning opening them.
You were my hero that day.
I remember making
chocolate chip cookies with M&M’s on top. You’d let me place the
M&M’s in any pattern I wanted. I remember the aprons you wore when you
cooked, and the smile on your face. You taught me to love cooking, not so much
because you taught me how to cook, but because I saw how much joy it gave you
to cook for me, and others. I thought if I could make others feel this special
just by cooking for them-well, then that’s got to be worth something!
The best trip I ever
took was when we went to Salt Lake City on the train when I was four years old.
I remember walking to the dining car to eat lunch, but I was too nervous to eat
anything. So you ordered something with avocados. You pointed out all the
scenery and especially the cows. I was so absorbed in watching the cows, that I
didn’t realize I had eaten your entire avocado until lunch was over. And at
night, when we were in the sleeper berth all tucked in, you brought out your
trusty box of See’s candy for a bedtime treat. Memories are very powerful. I can
still hear the noise of the train at night, I can feel the rocking of the
train, and I can taste the chocolate in my mouth. And I felt safe in a very
unfamiliar environment. It was a grand trip!
I remember being out in
the backyard with you while you gardened and I played. I remember when I stayed
over your house, you would have me take afternoon naps. You would tuck me in,
kiss me and say “goodnight, sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite”. And
every afternoon when I woke up, you would have set up a treasure hunt for me,
complete with little clues you wrote on scraps of paper. You’d send me all over
the house to a final destination where I would find a prize. Sometimes the
prize was big-a stuffed animal, a game. Sometimes the prize was little-a piece
of See’s candy. But it was always, always one of the most precious rituals we
had.
One of my favorite
memories is watching the Jackie Gleason show with you and Papa. You would let
me stay up late on those nights. You’d turn the lights off in the den, and you
and Papa would sit on the couch and I would sit on the floor at your feet and
we would watch Jackie Gleason and the June Taylor dancers. And every time,
around half way through the show, you’d bring out a Hostess pie for me (it was
always either boysenberry or lemon-my favorites) with a glass of milk. And
after the show, you would put me to bed, tuck me in, and sing me a song or tell
me a story. That is a great memory.
I remember your piano.
You would go about your housework and then just sit at the piano bench and play
for a few minutes. When I was old enough, you taught me how to play. I remember
so many times when you played and we sang “how much is that doggy in the
window”. And at Christmas time, when I was very young you would play and sing
the song ”Jolly old Saint Nicholas, turn your head this way, don’t you tell a
single soul, what I’m going to say”. And then you would put our names in the
song. “Christmas Eve is coming soon, now you dear old man, tell me what you’ll
bring to me, tell me if you can. Marky wants a fire truck, Cindy wants a dolly,
Tina wants a chemistry set, she thinks dolls are folly. As for me what I want
best I really do not know, so I think the wisest thing to do is leave the
choice to you.”
The song I most loved to
hear you play was “Fascination”. I would ask you to play that every time you
sat down at the piano. I thought you were the best piano player that ever
lived.
When I was at my home on
Curtis Avenue, I remember you walking miles from your home on Padilla over to
our house to visit. And when you moved to Oceana, I remember you walking around
the complex there. And then when you moved to Grass Valley, you walked around
your apartment complex every day. You showed me by example the simple pleasure
of walking.
I remember on several
Halloweens, when I was too sick to go trick or treating, you and Papa would
come over to pick me up, and take me back to your house. You would always have
a bag of treats waiting for me. I remember one Halloween, in particular, I was
sick. I was very upset because I couldn’t go trick or treating. You came over
to the house dressed in a hat and trench coat, and just about scared the pants
off Teresa and I when we answered the door. But you took me back home with you
that night and gave me a bag full of marbles, and Papa taught me how to play. I
loved them, and didn’t mind at all not going out that Halloween.
I remember the rocking
chair in your den. You would have me sit in your lap and rock back and forth
for what seemed hours. When I was sad, or sick or just tired, you would rock
me. I don’t think anyone else ever rocked me as a child.
When you moved to Oceana,
I would come down on the train to stay with you and Papa. Papa would drive us
to the mall and you and I would spend the day shopping, with lunch. You loved
shopping and lunch. And when Papa picked us up and drove us home, he would have
made homemade pasties for dinner.
You loved your soap
operas-General Hospital especially, and All My Children. I still remember
sitting on the den floor in Oceana watching you watch General Hospital and All
My Children and you exclaiming "Oh Erica, she's such a pill!". To
this day, when I hear General Hospital, I think of the old melody that was
their opening song and remember you.
I remember all the
holiday dinners you would fix. The turkeys and ham, the Jell-O mold salads, the
mashed potatoes and gravy, the ambrosia salad. And you always made sure you had
plenty of pickles and olives because you knew they were my favorites.
When I went away to
Humboldt College, you came up to visit me. I showed you all around the campus.
I remember showing you the computers, which were fairly new back then and you
thought I was so smart! And every month, you would send me your famous “care
packages”-in shoe boxes packed with underwear, socks, toothpaste, deodorant and
homemade baked cookies. I never bought underwear for myself until I was 25
years old!
When I was in college, I
would come up to visit you in Grass Valley. I would spend the day skiing at
Tahoe, and you spent the day shopping and cooking. And when I came home from
skiing, you would have cooked all my favorite foods. I’d eat until I thought I
would burst, and you’d always say “Are you sure you don’t want just a little
more?” The next morning I’d drive us to breakfast somewhere. And when I moved
to Dallas, you flew out to see where I lived and to make sure I was okay. You
always took good care of me.
When I was young, I once
asked you why I had so many problems with my heart. You told me it was because
God knew that I was strong and brave enough to handle it and someone else would
not be. So I always made sure that I was.
You always said to me “I
just want you to be happy”. You gave me love, warmth, affection and caring when
I couldn’t find them elsewhere. You took care of me when no one else was there.
You taught me how to be strong, proud, determined, smart and honest. And you
loved me unconditionally. You were my example of how to live.
You don’t have to worry
about me anymore. All your worries and all your prayers got me where I am
today. I am well and happy and safe and healthy. And I have someone to take
care of me who loves me very much. You are the best grandmother I could have
ever hoped to have. I carry all these memories with me every day because
they are warm and comforting. And I hope that knowing that is comforting to
you. Because I just want you to be happy Nan. Go be with John, Jim and Joan.
You deserve the rest. Sleep peacefully, and know that you were a hero. So
goodnight Nan, and sleep tight. And I’ll watch out for the bedbugs tonight.
I'll love you always
Tina
My Hero
Nana and I on our way to the train statin to go to Salt Lake City when I was 4 years old
Nana making our turkey on Christmas
Visiting Nana and Aunt Lil while I was in college
Nana and I at her piano at Christmas
Nana and her niece Vanessa
One of the last photos of Nana and I
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