Friday, September 16, 2011

My Daughters Essay About Her Grandmother (My Mom)

It is early fall, and I am cleaning house when I discover a scribbled entry in a worn sketch pad. It isn't very old, but it has been handled heavily.
"A small red or green light flashes and bathes the room in a wash of color reminiscent of my favorite season, Christmas, so much so that I can almost talk myself into believing the scent of cinnamon floats in the air. Unfortunately, there is no cinnamon. There is only a mild scent of sterilizer, with a hint of sweat beneath it. The air is stale and there is no Christmas here. Christmas is far, far away. I shift about, attempting to find some comfortable position in which to pass this night, curled under a blanket with my legs stuck to the vinyl chair beneath me, but there is no place in this world I would rather be than here in this room, with the woman whose life has been in step with mine from the moment of my birth.
 The bed beside me creaks as her body shifts, impossibly fragile beneath a tangle of blankets and sheets. In that moment, I am perfectly alert, absolutely silent. Is she awake? In pain? Am I needed? But no, the room is quiet again, the sound broken only by the drone of the oxygen pump. I watch the numbers rise and fall, mirroring her faint breaths. Only a point or two each time, but should those numbers dip anywhere below 90, I’ll have to wake up my grandmother and remind her to take deeper breaths. Luckily, her oxygen levels have hovered within the nigh nineties all night. I take a deep breath and calm my heart while my grandmother sleeps on.
                I know that in the morning, this may all change. Right now, I pair my breaths with hers and remember that no matter what the sunrise brings, at least I am here by her side."

                As an obstetrics nurse, my grandmother helped deliver me. As Grandma, she raised me. As my best friend, she supported me. She was always there, her touch the very essence of safety and security. The sound of her voice was the momentum behind every achievement.
                In 2009, she realized a goal two decades in the making. She saw me graduate college.  Only two months after a broken hip and resulting surgery, she walked into the university gymnasium and took her place in the front row, where I could almost touch her as I walked by, diploma in hand. She had a determination that could not be discounted. We joked that for every stage in my life, she’d had a surgery. Despite such setbacks, she’d still been there to see me through that diploma, that associate’s degree and finally, that bachelor’s degree.
                Six months later, her home crawling with family members from all over the country, Grandma showed us another facet of her endless determination. During a routine x-ray, her doctor discovered two tiny blemishes near the top of her left lung. Biopsies confirmed the presence of lung cancer. As she delivered the news, I distinctly remember the sound of someone coughing, shortly before my nice, safe world shattered. Her voice was thin but firm as she laid out the details of her diagnosis, so much like carefully measured ingredients for the birthday cakes she taught me to bake. And then she told us something I will never forget.
                “Let’s get on with this game of Farkel!”
                Two years later, spring in Oklahoma burst forth. It was sunny, crisp and beautiful. Grandma called to let me know that she was moving out of the assisted living center. She’d lived there while she underwent proton therapy, a new alternative to radiation. Previous radiation had taken a toll on lungs already weak from emphysema and COPD. Proton therapy, they assured her, would not have the uncomfortable side effects of radiation. Three months later, everyone was glad to see they’d spoken the truth.
                Despite this, two years of chemotherapy and radiation left her strength low. Her spirit remained just as determined as ever. Lung cancer is no easy foe, but she knew she could beat it. And she did. One last treatment, and she would go home. For the weekend, however, we would spend it at my home. As Grandma outlined our plans for my new yard, I noticed how fresh and crisp she sounded. Her voice was a welcome introduction to spring’s glory days. At last, spring had arrived. At last, Grandma was heading home.
                When I look back on the following July, I remember nothing but a tumult of terror. Her admittance to the hospital, her transfer to another, this one closer to her pulmonologist. Then, the overwhelming  press of fear. Finally, the sound of my own disbelief, and my mental screams as they drummed out the same sentence, over and over again.
                I am dying. I am dying, and she is gone.
                The crush of each breath leaving my body, my chest so tight, I couldn't stand to take another. Every sound was terrifying and reality was so sharp, so painful, that it crushed me like a thousand tons of debris raining down on me from some invisible structure. Still, the sound of my own mind, railing against the reality of what had come to pass.
                I am falling, I am trapped, I am lost, I am alone, I am terrified, and I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Why can’t I breathe?
                On the 17th of July, my grandmother woke and greeted my Uncle Mark, her youngest son and a nurse like her, with these words: “It’s time to let go.”
                She had decided to discontinue treatment. She was ready to go. Twenty-four hours later, she was gone.
                On the twenty-sixth of July, I turned 25 years old. My parents and friends called, texted and wrote to tell me happy birthday. How could I tell them that I didn't want to hear from them? That the one person I wanted to hear from isn’t going to call? That the crush of loneliness was killing me?
                I couldn't, and so I remained alone.
                August dawned, an oppressively hot month. I tried to get used to the fact that I couldn't call my best friend to tell her any of my good news. She and I celebrated the little things like they were milestones, and I found myself missing that connection. Because she was with me, every step of the way, she knew everything about me. I could talk to her in a way that I can't talk to any one else. In August, I began to learn to speak about my grandmother in the past tense, and to realize that she really is gone.
                I was surrounded by people who loved me and shared in my grief, but I felt like the only way to grieve was to grieve alone. And so I did.
                Two months have passed since she left, but my mind translates those sixty days into an endless lifetime of minutes, marching through my mind in the form of memories that I am desperate to save, to collect like I would seashells or dolls.
                Today is different. Today, I am going to start writing about my Grandmother. I know it is going to be painful, but I need to remember everything about this woman who changed my life. I will be able to tell myself in the future about how her hands felt on my face when I was sick, or how her words could soothe even the most broken teenage heart. I will tell myself, and my children, about someone who loved me enough to deliver me into this world, and walk beside me every single day until she left it.
                My grandmother’s love was endless. Anyone who knew her was loved by her. She had dozens of friends who were “adopted,” and her children’s and grandchildren’s friends found themselves similarly adopted. At eighty years old, she had charm that could sneak up and pull you in before you realized it. She attracted people like moths to a flame. Her hugs, her advice, her smile…all were sought by the people who knew her. Who wouldn’t want to be near someone who would stubbornly see the best in people, even the worst people?
                I have heard that you learn best by example. And I understand that philosophy. I knew love because I knew a woman like my Grandmother—because I was loved by her. My best friend and Grandmother (and my occasional partner in crime) set an example for her children to follow. Even in death, she left behind a legacy of love that bonded her family, both blood and adopted, in ways so much stronger we could have realized.  Her love was her greatest possession, and therefore, it was her greatest gift.
                And because I was loved by her, I am changed for good. And I am not alone.

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