(no subject)
So I've been having a hard time writing about this, to the point that I've written in my journal about how I am having a hard time writing about this and conveniently ignoring the opportune time that arose to write about what it is that I am going to write about. I've said that I needed time to process what happened; that is both true and false. I can't quite separate in my self what is me repressing what I am feeling and what is me working through things. I think I'm at the point where I can say what I need to say, where the things that I have wanted to say have rattled around in my head for long enough. I think I've found my words.
My grandma died three weeks ago tommorow. The delivery of that statement upsets me a little bit because it is not my intention to frame it as something that I am extremely upset about. The previous paragraph could also point one in that direction. The truth is that she was ninety years old and someone that I didn't know very well. She was a librarian and loved to read. Her eyesight had failed to the point where she could no longer read or watch TV. Osteoporosis ruined her spine so she could barely stand; when she did stand, her back was folded forward into a seeming ninety-degree angle, causing her lungs and ribcage to put constant pressure on her organs. She was at a point where she was unable to get out of bed without someone helping her. My grandfather did all he could to assist her in any way he could, but he is not exactly young and fit either. I think the (necessary) decision to have hospice care, such that she could have help getting in and out of bed, getting dressed, help in the shower was a final blow to a woman who was having the last thing that she loved taken away from her: her privacy and dignity.
Three weeks ago today I got a call from my dad saying that grandma wasn't doing well, that my mom was flying down from anchorage the next morning to see her. I was concerned but not overly worried. The next morning, dad called again saying she had just passed. I talked to my mother who was understandably inconsolable. I went to the nursing home to be with my family. I knew that she was going to be in the room when I got there; I hadn't seen a dead body before and wasn't sure if I wanted to. I didn't go and see my grandpa neely in the mortuary when he passed. I didn't go to the funeral of my great-uncle melvin because I have a profound fear of the effects of death on the living. A part of that is definitely because I don't understand grief, due to the fact that I haven't had anyone close to me die. All these things were in my head during the MAX ride over to their apartment.
I met my uncle mark in the landing of the fourteenth floor (as a brief, slightly comical sidenote, there is no 13th floor in the calaroga terrace where they live. Every time I've gone up to their floor I think of the Mitch Hedburg bit, "People staying on the fourteenth floor... you know what floor you are really on," an observation that was particularly macabre on the day in discussion), talking to a friend on the phone. We hugged; he warned me that she looked... different already. I entered the room, giving a hug to my grandpa who appeared to be almost stoic about the loss of his wife of sixty-one years. Looking back on it now, it was about 12:30 PM when I got there, she had died at 8:30, he obviously was still processing, as evidenced by the number of times he cried later in the day. I went further into the apartment and saw her lying on her bed. As repulsive as the connection is, I once saw a cat that had been run over in Parkland. It's mouth was still open in a silent scream. My grandmother's mouth was open in the same way. Her skin already looked yellowed, sallow. I didn't spend much time in the room with her. The second time I went to see her, there was a fly on her face, sitting on her upper lip. I was torn between wanting to brush it off and being repulsed at the idea of touching her dead face. I got a piece of paper and flapped it at the bug, again not touching her with anything. I swatted the paper over her for a few seconds with no effect and again felt a strangely humorous feeling about this, as though she were going to wake up at any second and berate me for waking her up with the breeze from the rolled up newspaper.
That morning, my grandpa woke up and got dressed, starting to get ready to go about his day. Helen woke up and they talked for a few minutes. These are the last words they exchanged:
Helen: Who's in here with us?
Cecil: It's just us chickens.
Helen: There is someone standing at the foot of the bed.
Cecil: There isn't anyone there, just the sunlight through the window.
She fell asleep again and passed within fifteen minutes.
I say again that I didn't know her very well and that is ostensibly true. A more accurate notion, though, is that I know her intimately and have a part of her in me forever because my mother is truly her mother's daughter and I am truly my mother's son. She was a librarian who always had more books than shelves to keep them. I grew up in that environment as well, at least in part due to the influence of grandma thompson on my mom. If (God forbid) I ever play a part in spawning some mewling ball of cabbage into my life, that child will grow up in much the same environment. Looking at her that way, looking at that one specific and narrow way of looking at her influence on my life, it is obvious how much I owe to her, how much a part of me she is. I am not sure who I am if not a reader and I wouldn't be a reader now if it wasn't for her.
My grandma died three weeks ago tommorow. The delivery of that statement upsets me a little bit because it is not my intention to frame it as something that I am extremely upset about. The previous paragraph could also point one in that direction. The truth is that she was ninety years old and someone that I didn't know very well. She was a librarian and loved to read. Her eyesight had failed to the point where she could no longer read or watch TV. Osteoporosis ruined her spine so she could barely stand; when she did stand, her back was folded forward into a seeming ninety-degree angle, causing her lungs and ribcage to put constant pressure on her organs. She was at a point where she was unable to get out of bed without someone helping her. My grandfather did all he could to assist her in any way he could, but he is not exactly young and fit either. I think the (necessary) decision to have hospice care, such that she could have help getting in and out of bed, getting dressed, help in the shower was a final blow to a woman who was having the last thing that she loved taken away from her: her privacy and dignity.
Three weeks ago today I got a call from my dad saying that grandma wasn't doing well, that my mom was flying down from anchorage the next morning to see her. I was concerned but not overly worried. The next morning, dad called again saying she had just passed. I talked to my mother who was understandably inconsolable. I went to the nursing home to be with my family. I knew that she was going to be in the room when I got there; I hadn't seen a dead body before and wasn't sure if I wanted to. I didn't go and see my grandpa neely in the mortuary when he passed. I didn't go to the funeral of my great-uncle melvin because I have a profound fear of the effects of death on the living. A part of that is definitely because I don't understand grief, due to the fact that I haven't had anyone close to me die. All these things were in my head during the MAX ride over to their apartment.
I met my uncle mark in the landing of the fourteenth floor (as a brief, slightly comical sidenote, there is no 13th floor in the calaroga terrace where they live. Every time I've gone up to their floor I think of the Mitch Hedburg bit, "People staying on the fourteenth floor... you know what floor you are really on," an observation that was particularly macabre on the day in discussion), talking to a friend on the phone. We hugged; he warned me that she looked... different already. I entered the room, giving a hug to my grandpa who appeared to be almost stoic about the loss of his wife of sixty-one years. Looking back on it now, it was about 12:30 PM when I got there, she had died at 8:30, he obviously was still processing, as evidenced by the number of times he cried later in the day. I went further into the apartment and saw her lying on her bed. As repulsive as the connection is, I once saw a cat that had been run over in Parkland. It's mouth was still open in a silent scream. My grandmother's mouth was open in the same way. Her skin already looked yellowed, sallow. I didn't spend much time in the room with her. The second time I went to see her, there was a fly on her face, sitting on her upper lip. I was torn between wanting to brush it off and being repulsed at the idea of touching her dead face. I got a piece of paper and flapped it at the bug, again not touching her with anything. I swatted the paper over her for a few seconds with no effect and again felt a strangely humorous feeling about this, as though she were going to wake up at any second and berate me for waking her up with the breeze from the rolled up newspaper.
That morning, my grandpa woke up and got dressed, starting to get ready to go about his day. Helen woke up and they talked for a few minutes. These are the last words they exchanged:
Helen: Who's in here with us?
Cecil: It's just us chickens.
Helen: There is someone standing at the foot of the bed.
Cecil: There isn't anyone there, just the sunlight through the window.
She fell asleep again and passed within fifteen minutes.
I say again that I didn't know her very well and that is ostensibly true. A more accurate notion, though, is that I know her intimately and have a part of her in me forever because my mother is truly her mother's daughter and I am truly my mother's son. She was a librarian who always had more books than shelves to keep them. I grew up in that environment as well, at least in part due to the influence of grandma thompson on my mom. If (God forbid) I ever play a part in spawning some mewling ball of cabbage into my life, that child will grow up in much the same environment. Looking at her that way, looking at that one specific and narrow way of looking at her influence on my life, it is obvious how much I owe to her, how much a part of me she is. I am not sure who I am if not a reader and I wouldn't be a reader now if it wasn't for her.