I'm feeling hot and constipated lately. Usually a sign that I'm holding something in, and the lack of dookie is only a symptom of the larger picture.
I have always been running with scissors, for as long as I can remember. Now, not so much. But, lately, I have needed to run, run, run, chomping at the bit run.
I got the email from my father that my grandmother was in the hospital...she has cancer and is too weak to go through the treatments, she has jaundice. Is she dying? My father angry and chocked up said, he didn't know, but it was bad. I don't talk to my father. Oh, he's been in therapy, but, it didn't help him with me, even after almost forty years...but this was my grandmother. I would call my brother, who dad hadn't called yet, and tell him the news and let him know that I was going.
My father's sister recently died. She had cancer. My brother and I were not allowed to go the my Aunt's death bed, and we weren't allowed to go and be with the family...we were told not to go. Then right after her death, my father sold my grandmother's house without telling either of us, and moved her to live in San Antonio with him. My brother and I would each make our own trek back to the house before it was demolished to visit and say our piece, without telling our father.
I had the most history with my grandmother, who had not been nice to my brother, because he was my half-brother. Oh, how I wanted my brother to go, how I needed his support, but I needed it to be his decision - I was not going to manipulate him like our family had done to both of us so many times.
I slammed stuff into a suitcase and sped to San Antonio. I hated the traffic and wished that I had a sign that said my grandmother is dying, get the fuck out of my way or a battering ram. I finally found the hospital and my father. He looked like crap - his eyes were all red and swollen. He had gotten so much older. I never visit...it's not good for either of us.
My grandmother was awake and yellow. I told her how yellow she looked and how much I had missed her, and that I would be staying with her, I would have them move a cot right in. We held hands and hugged. I teared up....all those times, all those memories, from the earliest of my existence. She had always been there...always. I suddenly remembered sitting in the big Ford stationwagon in front of the PigglyWiggly's before they opened. Mamaw liked to be early...every Wednesday morning. I would get animal crackers to keep me quiet in the store, and I always felt bad about eating their heads, but, since I had already taken a very uncomfortable bite out of them, I should finish them off. Right back to being knee-high to a grasshopper.
I couldn't be there with her after I grew up and ran from my past...not too many time, it would be too much, and grandmother was getting old and mean and a bit crazy. She accused me once of trying to steal her towels. I didn't, but if I had, I'm not sure it would have mattered...she grew up in the depression and in her old age had bags and bags and roomfuls of towels she had gotten on sale. But, I would be there for her death. I could do that.
My father and his wife didn't want me to stay at the hospital...I could go to their house and stay. No thank you, I'll take the cot. I didn't want anything to do with them. This would be so much, too much, my heart breaking, but for my grandmother, yes, for my grandmother. He hair was still long and done up. I loved her long hair, she always dyed it, but not now, just long and white with the bobbiepins. I would miss her hair. I would always die my hair, my whole life, but never would have the patience to grow it so long and beautiful.
The first night she cried out. I moved the chair by her bed and held her hands I slept there crumpled up. I would miss her hands. I was suddenly aware of her hands. Her hands that had made me clothes, fried chickens, picked apples, spanked me....I would miss those perfect hands that had done so much for me. Her hands knotted in pain from hard work and age...that time she was putting cream on them, and I ask her what that was, and she said BenGay, and I said how long? I didn't even know what the joke meant. She scowled and had eyes laughing.
At some point during the night she woke up and was lucid. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her beautiful blue eyes that had looked at me forever. I told her how much I loved her, more than my words could say. I thanked her for taking care of me and teaching me, and making me. I told her that she had done such a good job, and it would carry though my blood line. I told her that she was beautiful and we were all ok. She had done her job and we were all ok. She saw me, and she told me she loved me. We sat together, holding hands, until she went back to sleep.
She would only get worse over the next days. Crying out in pain, and not completely there anymore. My father was there...he never held mamaw's hands or stroked her hair....They had a horrible relationship. Funny, she was great to me, shitty to him, he was shitty to me, and I never introduced him to my son...so, we'll never know if there was to be a pattern emerging.
My father would take his usual digs at me, the way I looked, the opinions I have, all things that made be different. And then spend his time talking about all the stuff he knew or the stuff he amassed. He ran away from his upbringing too. Our difference was I was never ashamed of mine. I never had to prove that I made it. I made it, that's it.
I smoked a lot when my father was there. I talked with the other smokers. Smokers are a social group. We supported each other. The woman who's mother was in the hospital and being cantankerous. The woman who's child was in the hospital with cancer. The man who's nephew was in the hospital with a brain tumor. We bonded and shared our stories and grief in the ordained smoking area. We would never see each other again, or even remember our names...but, I remember their stories and I felt a great comfort there, at the trashcan with them.
The food was shitty and my strength was low....caffeine and nicotine, and calls to friends and my brother. I wanted my grandmother to go. She was ready, I hated the pain she was in. I hated that the hospital staff had to move her to change her diaper when she wasn't going to the bathroom anymore. I hated that they called it a diaper. Stop with the poking at her, please stop....but, hospitals are to try and keep you alive to experience those last few painful moments. We have made a mockery of death, I think. I wish that we had saved more of our Indian heritage. She would have gone better. I took a shower in my grandmother's room, much to the dismay of my father. "We don't usually use the patients rooms for that." Well, dad, I asked if I could, and other people do this and I'm not leaving. Always with the appearances. Appearances mean so much to people, which is impossible for me to keep up with, the billions of people on the planet, most who I'll never see again, what's all the effort for?
My father and his wife worked in the medical field. All the clinical answers you could want, but none of the emotional ones. My father loved rules...I, on the other hand, never gave much thought to them, rather, I pick and choose the ones that I think are important. And taking a shower in my grandmother's room wasn't that important. I didn't feel that much better after the shower...I guess I could have kept up that appearance...but, I smelled better.
Mamaw was finally moved into hospice. While they were getting her transferred, the family went to lunch. My father handed me a wad of cash to pay for parking. I used what I needed and gave the rest back. He insisted that I keep it...I insisted he take it back. My uncle and cousins had arrived. As we sat that the table in some "family-style" restaurant, I ordered my salad with ranch dressing. My cousin's wife didn't know much about our family. I started to give her the lowdown, including my Uncle Fred, and the fact that he'd been married several times, and probably had lots of illegitimate children that we didn't know about, we laughed. My father gave me the look and the angry voice, and stated that I shouldn't talk about that in front of his wife's family because they were very conservative. I shot back. The table was silenced for a moment. I'm not ashamed of my Uncle. And I don't care who doesn't like me, that's never important. I loved my Uncle. He's crazy and dying of cancer, but he had a ride...he had a ride with his life. You have to respect that.
We got back to the hospice and mamaw had been bathed and medicated. She was a little uncomfortable. I said, it helps if you hold her hands, she has comfort in that. A few minutes later, my father's wife would come in a make the speech that these people who worked here knew what that were doing and so we didn't need to tell them anything. Since I was the only one who said anything, I can defer that she was speaking to me....broadly.
My father's wife's family came to visit. They had children. The children loved my grandmother. They were all very sad, this was their loss, too. I was so proud and happy that they had gotten to see the grandmother that I had, that she had made that impression on them, too. How wonderful and magical is that. There were suddenly five generations at her bed. All that work, and love....we can only hope that we die that well.
Everyone left. My brother was on his way. My father had given him the wrong address to the hospice. I went to get the bad from my car to sleep there. The nurses came in. My grandmother was already gone. It was that fast, and quiet. She had been so tired. She stayed to say as many good-byes as she could. She was gone. I had missed it, but I had been there until the end. I had made it for her.
My face that had only teared up began flooding. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open and her skin smooth. I asked if I could stay a minute more. Yes.
I held her hands. I held her hands as though I wanted to just absorb that little bit more of her super powers. Oh, Mamaw. I love you so much. I didn't feel just a loss, I felt lost. I was lost somewhere, alone.
My brother arrived. He was angry that he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. I told him that she was really already gone, and he should go in there now and say what he need to say. I was so happy to see him. He's grown up and strong now. His hug for me was like a wave of relief...I was suddenly tired and hungry. My brother...
I told him how I had needed him for this, and thanked him for being my brother. We were only beginning our relationship recently because of the parents troubles. And we stood out in front of the hospice talking in the dark. A little comedy, I suppose...both of us not from there, lost, and smoking, crying in the dark....what a strange pair.
The van for the transport of my grandmother's body arrived. I saw them taking her out. I ask them to please take care of her, she is my grandmother.I know it's just a body, but it was raw and new and I couldn't quit crying.
I stole my grandmother's hairbrush with some of her white hairs in it before leaving. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it, and if you ask my father, I always steal things. I did steal a lot in my life, but not recently, or even within a few decades...but, I stole the brush. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
We decided to go to my father's house to stay the night. I really wanted to go home, but I knew that I was physically not able, and what of my brother...he had come for me, and what I was to leave him alone with my father? I owed him.
The house is in a gated community. It's very well put together. I was to stay in Mamaw's room. I went around touching everything in her room, smelling it. My father's wife offered me some things, as though they were now her's to offer. I didn't really care about the things, I just wanted to look and touch and smell. It would all be gone soon...gone.
Her dresser was the same and the one in the old house. Memories of my childhood and that dresser with all the lipsticks, powders, costume jewelry stacked high. The fake flower in a vase to the side. All the things that I was NEVER allowed to touch when I was little and it was nap time, and we would pass on our way to the big bed. I would fall asleep to my Mamaw's soft skin and snores. This dresser was so neat and tidy now, a product of moving in with my father and his wife. Not the beautiful clutter that she had stacked when she lived in the house....the beautiful clutter. I remembered the creak in the floor paneling of the gas floor heater, so I could never sneak a peak at anything. Now, I opened her drawers and saw the scarfs...she always had her hair done, and wore a scarf in the windy small town she lived in. I asked for some of the scarves.
I found her jewelry box in one of the drawers. I asked if I could look inside and hold it for a moment. It was the jewelry box. My father came in and took it from my hands, so quickly that it shocked my brother and even his wife. I grabbed it back, and stated that I didn't want anything, I just wanted to look and touch. He relented.
The box was old fake leather, with hinges, so when you opened it, there would be the first tier and then the deeper, larger second tier. It was faded pink. Inside was the jewelry. I started to look through it. I finally asked if I could have a few costume pieces. My grandmother loved her fake jewelry; large giant rings, beads, pens, always clip on earrings because her ears were never pierced.
We all sat around in a foursome. My father, his wife, my brother, and I, going through the box. My father made several comments about what I was not to get. How expensive this or that piece was worth. I didn't need any of that, and he was missing the point. I never cared about money or riches. My grandparents were not rich....fucking take it already have all of it...pile it up already. I only wanted to remember the costume jewelry that she wore. She was such a lady, something that I never really became. And she did it on a dime, buying remnants and fakes....bobbie pins and powders all that I will never be but will forever carry with me.
I remembered how mad my father was that my grandmother had started to give away her stuff to other family members before he was in charge. And how he got the lawyer and straighten it all out so he could take care of Mamaw and Uncle Fred. Always the same old shit with my father, and always the pointing fingers that never pointed back. Whatever, take it all.
It was almost bedtime, and my father mentioned the box of stuff that he had of mine up in the attic. I would finally need to take that, so he could start getting rid of stuff. I said fine, we'd get it in the morning.
Everyone left mamaw's room. I sat there looking around and touching things. I went to the bathroom and smelled her soap. I was exhausted and couldn't sleep. What does one do now? I wanted to be home. I wanted my mamaw. I wanted dinner. I tiptoed out, into the kitchen and looked for something to eat. Everything needed to be made or have a companion to make a meal. I grabbed some expensive, healthy chips and went and ate them on my grandmother's bed, laying there sad and crunching in the dark room that had a smell I couldn't forget, never wanted to forget. I breathed heavily and eventually dosed off.
I awoke, way to early to the sound of everyone in the kitchen. I would only ask for coffee and let everyone know that I was going to smoke. My father was already making some crazy huge breakfast, chattering away.
I stayed outside on the phone and smoking until I gained some of my senses. My brother brought his dog out and we huge out and talked and played. My father and his wife would be going to the funeral home to identify the body. I didn't know about that part...yes, I guess it would be sad if they burned up the wrong body. And there would be a quick memorial later that evening.
I told my father that my brother and I could got and finally get my box out of his way, while he and his wife were out. My father's face turned red, and his face angry, and he yelled that NOONE would be getting any box from the attic today!!!!!
What a shocker. My father has had the box for years, I have told him to mail it, I've tried to make arrangements to pick it up, I've tried to get him to toss it. It never ever seems to happen....like a carrot in front of the horse. I don't even know what's in the damn box.
I told all of that above, and he screamed at me that I was a bitch and a liar, A LIAR and if I thought holding mamaw's hands while she died made up for all the other times, that I didn't come and see her, well that just meant that I didn't love her.
So, there he was...the father that I had always heard from my entire life. The real father, the one that I never told his new wife about, the one that I kept my son and man hidden from...there he was.
I started crying and leaving. My father's wife came in and tried to get me not to leave...saying our family never did handle anger well. I said, I had come for my grandmother and now she's dead, and I am tired and sad, and I love people and they love me and I want to be around those people now. AND keep the box, I don't know what's in it, keep it, throw it away it didn't matter, I wouldn't miss it.
I packed my car and sat with my brother. I was leaving him with my father again.....that's what I did to him, his whole life. I didn't want him to be the peacemaker between us. I didn't want to have anything to do with my father. I didn't want to go to the memorial. I wanted to go home, and I was so sorry that I am so weak.
My brother would tell me later that my father held mamaw's hands and told everyone how sorry he was that he ran me away. Well, neither mamaw or I really heard anything.
I would go home, and I wouldn't unpack for weeks. I didn't bathe either. I would get a random email from my father about another memorial service for my grandmother in the little town she was from.
I'm not going. I didn't respond. I still don't know what I'm going to do with her hairbrush.
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