Friday, January 15, 2010

In Memoriam

One of the things I find most nebulous about being a blogger is how much personal stuff I should share with the rest of the Internet. I've written about bad dates I've been on, amazing nights that can only happen in New York, heartwrenching depression brought on by my break-up, and moving moments in others' lives that brought tears to my eyes. I write about all these things because I literally don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Writing has always been and will always be the only way I really know how to express adequately my version of the human experience.

Yesterday, my grandmother passed away. She had Parkinson's Disease for several years before that, and we basically watched her fade away over the past couple of years. She was my only remaining living grandparent. She was 82 years old. She had three children, one of whom is my beloved Schmom B. She had three grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. She was sweet and beautiful. Here she is. I called her Mema.



Isn't she pretty? This photo was taken while my family, friends and I stood outside Taylor Grocery in Taylor, Mississippi waiting for a table for my college graduation dinner in May 2008. At this point, she was shaking because of the Parkinson's, but she could still walk around and do stuff pretty much on her own. It's really my last significant memory of her being self-sufficient and out in the world. When she passed yesterday, she was confined to a wheelchair and not really able to eat or do anything for herself anymore. We begin life as babies, and if we are among the lucky ones, we end it as them as well.

The last time I saw her was on Christmas Day, just a few weeks ago. She said a couple things to me that were so poignant and painfully beautiful that I debated for a long time whether I wanted to write an essay based entirely on these few words. I still haven't decided, but I feel comfortable sharing them here now. I feel like I need to share them, because I feel like they represent the person she was.

When I walked into the house she and my Papa shared for at least the past 23 years - they were married for more than 50 before he passed away in 2003 - she was sitting in her wheelchair in the kitchen. She was shaking pretty badly but she still reached her hand to me as I went to hug her gently. As I hugged her, I said, "Hey Mema, how are you doin'? You look good. You feelin' OK?" I never really know how to talk to old or sick people, which is something I have always disliked about myself. My face hovered close to hers and she looked directly in my eyes and said, "This isn't contagious, you know." Then her voice tinkled with laughter, weak but real.

My heart broke a little bit. On the one hand, I admired her for still being able to tell a joke, despite her condition. On the other hand, I realized that she wasn't really joking at all. She was always more concerned about the comfort of everyone else than she ever was about herself. And I could hear the loneliness in her voice. It was that palpable loneliness that is not linguistically replicable, but beats under every vocal chord. I cannot tell you what it sounds like or feels like or looks like. Writing is failing me here.

After we ate our Christmas meal and opened our presents, my parents and I were getting ready to head back home. I reached down to hug her, this time more tightly, because I had a feeling I might not see her alive again. She grasped my hand in hers, and it stopped shaking. Just for a few moments, the shaking stopped. I told her I loved her very much. She looked at me and said, "I love you, too. Maybe next year we'll all be healthy."

My heart broke the rest of the way. Even after several years of illness, and being so aware of her sickness and how it affected everyone else around her, she still had this hope in her heart, this seemingly unwavering belief, that we would all be together again for Christmas the next year. After 83 years of life, she seemed to have no concept of giving up, or of not being around to enjoy Christmas dinner. I knew that what she said was very unlikely, if not nearly impossible, but at the same time I felt inspired by her resilience. If she could live so long and endure so much pain and still think that way, then I can certainly find my way through to the other side of my own problems and survive. More than that - I can live, and love others, and love myself, and breathe hope into my heart forever.

Lots of people might balk that I am writing about such personal moments in such a public sphere, but that's just what my life is. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to create work - essays, blog posts, plays, poems - out of my personal experiences, with the implicit hope that other people will read it. I want to connect with other people and effect them. I can't say how exactly, but I do. I just want to effect the world.

And I want other people to know what happy memories I have of Mema. I want people to know that I  remember this one Christmas when I was real little, my mom packed pillows around my body and put me in a homemade Santa suit, and I was so fat that I couldn't walk and I just fell down on my face in my grandparents' house and everyone just laughed and laughed and laughed. This other time, when I was in high school, my mom, Mema and I were watching Elf one Christmas and whenever that scene happened when Will Farrell belches really loudly at the dinner table, Mema just laughed and laughed and laughed. And anyone who knows me understands now where I get my warped sense of humor, and my strong penchant slash skill for burping.

I remember playing Uno with her on the couch, and Sequence with her at the kitchen table. We like card and board games in my family. I remember her laugh and how she always used to call me "hun." I remember how she always used to greet me at Christmas by coming outside her house and standing in her driveway with her arms open, expecting a big hug. I remember how she smelled. I remember how she always used to say "shoot" through her smile after she had a laughing fit. She was very Southern.

I am going home today to be with my family and attend Mema's funeral. I really hate funerals. Like a lot of things about Western culture, I just don't get it. They seem to never have anything to do with the actual life of the person being mourned. It seems like every funeral I've ever been to has been basically the same experience, which is wrong, because no two people are alike. Perhaps that is why I write; I want to create something unique so that I can pass on memories and important experiences to other people. Isn't that what a funeral should really be like, in theory?

So here you go Mema. This is my funeral for you. I'll be there Sunday, crying and laughing with everyone else, but just know that I've already committed my heart to my own memorial for you. This is it. I hope you liked it. I love you.




In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write.
And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself: must I write?

35 comments:

  1. My deepest sympathies to you and your family.

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  2. i'm so sorry to hear about mema. i am incredibly close to my gram, and reading this has caused me to cry sitting here at my desk at work. it's very touching that you shared this, and i wish you luck and strength this weekend. i agree, funerals don't seem appropriately done to me. i am glad you are honoring her in a unique way, and i'm sure she is too.

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  3. I am thinking of you in this time. I love what you wrote for your Grandmother. Beautiful.

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  4. So glad you had such a beautiful Mema, and the time you spent together with the memories to go with it.

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  5. M:

    Hang in there, and know you have my sincerest condolences. I experienced similar a couple years back, and I'm sure you'll run the gamut of emotions over the next few days.

    The scene you described with you and your grandmother hugging is powerful and brought back memories of me with my grandfather. I want to thank you for that. I have a similar experience of a simple action just before my grandfather's death that is more complex than any set of words can convey. It'll be a moment to always cherish.

    Safe flight and Godspeed,
    Chase P.

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  6. I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother, but thank you for sharing this tribute with us. I was heartbroken when my last living grandparent died last year; that's when you know you're really, really an adult.

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  7. Thank you for sharing with us your memories of your grandmother. She sounds like a beautiful woman. Your writing is so touching and I feel like I can hear her laughter.

    My sympathies to you and your family during this painful time.

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  8. Aww, I am so sorry.. This last Xmas we went to my FIL's house... he had 2 episodes of falling and staying in rehab centers.. Now he is home we/a 24/7 care... While saying goodbye he looked me dead in the eye and said " I will get better, I will do my exercises".... I too don't see him getting better.. He is 84.,..
    As far as what u write, things that may touch too close to home, well, if it bothers that person so be it... Getting old, sick and dying are a part of life's cycle.... I wrote something similar and u are welcome to read it...
    This is a beautiful piece, your Grandma would be proud!.

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  9. I am sending both sympathies to you and your family but also thanks for sharing this story. If people really read what you have written they will not balk because of it, they will come away with a desire to do something to be a better person. We could all learn a little lesson in trying to be more like your Mema. Thank you so much!

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  10. Just remember that one of the words you used the most in your post was "laugh." Remember those good times, and all the others I'm sure you have, and (*cliche alert*) your Mema will still be there.

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  11. I'm so sorry to hear about your grandmother. I'm keeping you and your family in my thoughts this weekend.

    Also, I love the Gaga tattoo reference. It's placement is perfect.

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  12. You will be in my thoughts and prayers, along with your family as well.

    You write beautifully and wouldn't change a darn thing about what you do!

    XOXO ~ Shelli

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  13. I am so sorry for your loss. She will always be with you and be a part of you. Stay strong.

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  14. Tears ran down my cheeks as I read this lovely tribute to Mema. Grandmothers are so special. Thank you for sharing. I am so terribly sorry for your loss. I'm sure she loved you very much. You seem like such a kind person.

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  15. Meghan- I'm so sorry. I had an Uncle who had Parkinson's and it's a terrible disease. I also had the same guilt for talking to him like he was a child. It was his body that didn't work, not his mind. That's what is so horrible about it.
    She seemed like a beautiful woman.

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  16. Thanks, everyone. I'm glad you all liked the post and I am sincerely grateful for your thoughts and prayers.

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  17. I send my deepest condolences. Your writing is beautiful, courageous and real. Never doubt your reasons for being open and honest. I lost my beloved grandmother the week before Christmas this year. She was 82 and my best friend. I spent Christmas with my family mourning her and even now I tear up when I find something she gave me or a card she wrote. Thank you for your beautiful words. Although I am very heartbroken for you, you reminded me of all the beautiful memories I have of my GMac and how loved she was. And how much she loved me. Bless your heart and I'll be thinking of you and your family this weekend. You're all in my prayers.

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  18. A wonderful tribute to what seems like a remarkable woman. My condolences.

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  19. this really inspired me, and helped me with what i am going through. Your grandma is amazing, thank you so much for sharing.

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  20. Writing this was a wonderful thing to do, for her and for you. As you reread this in the future, you may find different levels of meaning in the things she said to you, and you to her. It's wonderful for young people to be close to their grandparents...and inevitable that they will be saddened by their passing. I hope the wonderful memories will comfort you.

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  21. God Bless her. You're very strong for being able to write about your mema. Writing is an outlet for me as well, however I'm not strong enough to write about the loss of my grandmother.

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  22. I'm sorry you've lost your mema. My grandfather had Parkinson's too, it's a bad disease. That was a lovely memorial, I'm sure she's bragging about you on the other side.

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  23. Thanks for sharing this. It was a great blog & a very worthy memorial.

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  24. I am very sorry for your lost, I will keep you and your family in my prayers that you will be comforted during this sorrowful time.

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  25. thank you for sharing with us your pain. my thoughts and love is with you and your family. i lost my nanna when i was six, so i know how you feel. we were very close. lots of love.

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  26. Beautiful post. Thank you for sharing this most personal moment. My grandfather passed away in July, and my last experience with him was similar. Touched me deeply. My thoughts are with you.

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  27. I am so sorry for your loss. I was very close to my Grandma, and I can tell you that, even though she died on February 27, 1994, I still think about her and miss her every day. My prayers are going up for you and your family.

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  28. I would first like to say I'm so sorry for your loss. My grandmother passed last April so I understand the feelings you're going through. My prayers are with you and your family.

    Secondly, thank you for your words. I love the way you write because it's so real and relevant. Keep expressing yourself this way because not everyone has that gift.

    - T.C.

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  29. I lost my Grandma about this time last year. What you said about smell really hit me hard. I, too, must write. I wrote her eulogy. It was the hardest thing I've ever done and the most important thing I've ever written. This fall, I had a garage sale. I was selling one of her blankets. It still smelled like her. I couldn't part with it. I pulled the blanket out of the pile and it's now resting peacefully on a quilt rack (we're Southern, too). I hope you found peace while writing your memorial. I did.

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  30. A very touching tribute. I'm sorry for your loss. I miss my grandmother every single day and I know it's not easy.

    She sounds like an awesome lady.

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  31. First, I am so sorry to hear about your grandma. I truly know how horrible it feels. Second, you are such an amazing writer. I can only hope to be half as good as you one day! Third, as proof of how great you are, I had to go downstairs to the basement bathroom (I’m at work) to finish crying before I could leave a comment for you. I could write ten pages to you right now about how sorry I am to hear of your grandma’s passing and how much I can relate to you but I will do my best to be as brief as I can. I lost my grandma in August of 2007. I was VERY close to her. I went to her house at least two, if not three times a week for dinner. My aunts, mom and I always went to “old lady luncheons” with her to visit her sisters and to just go shopping - so you could say yes, she was a very big part of my life. I was very blessed to be so close to her as I don’t think any of the other 17 grandkids were, which I still find so strange. We celebrated her 80th birthday with a big party at the end of June of 2007. I made a slideshow presentation and played it for all of her family and friends and she LOVED it. It was a very nice luncheon, she was thrilled and said it was so wonderful and she had the best time. Two weeks later she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and six weeks after that she passed away. She was so completely healthy up until that point. She was very active, lived on her own, went dancing once a week with her “friend” (my grandpa passed away), made family meals for all of us multiple times a week. She traveled, gardened, just everything and to see her go from being so vibrant and active to so helpless and sick just broke all of our hearts. I have her picture on my desk, I have several around my house, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her and miss her. My mom, aunts and uncles still feel so broken, it was all so sudden and she really was the glue to our family. I want to say it gets better but with every holiday we only miss her more. It’s so unfair. I know I should focus on all of the good years she did have and all of the things she did do while she was here but I can’t stop being selfish and angry that she is gone. I see how much my mom hurts every day so you adding that this was your mom’s mom just made me hurt for you guys even more. I know it shouldn’t make a difference but the thought of losing my mom makes me just crazy. There’s just something about that bond between a mother and a daughter, what do you do when its gone? I never want to know and I feel bad for my mom and my aunts every day. I know you don’t know me at all but I am thinking of you and praying for you and your family, especially Schmom B. :-(

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  32. I have a knot in my throat from reading this and tears in my eyes. I'm so sorry for your loss. I lost my mother in 2008 and my grandmother a year before that. I don't think I have truly accepted either. It's never easy but your words are truly helpful. Your grandmother would be so proud of you.

    I like that you said you always felt like you weren't sure how to talk to older people. I always had that problem with my grandparents as well. I wish I could have gotten over that before their passing. Be safe in your travels.

    My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. Thank you for sharing this.

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  33. That was absolutely beautiful.

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