man/dude/dawg

four months

when I was seven I started going along to church camp with my grandmother every Summer.  It was  an entire week of rustic dinners and nightly worship services that sometimes went on until dawn.  I wholly believed all of the words that floated into and through my brain during those weeks, but benefited more in their ability to buy me a week away from my mother and her husband beating on each other than I did from their message.

Each year my grandmother and I would drive up into the park together, an hours long session I would spend talking, and she would spend listening.  It was the high of having someone's undivided attention.  It was being in the presence of someone who believed in me, and loved me unconditionally, and had never once raised her voice at me.  On several occasions over the years, the thought crossed my mind that I would have to go on living a large portion of my life without her   at my side.  And so I collected pictures, and letters, and souvenirs of her always, all the while ignoring the voice inside of me that wasn't sure I would ever be old enough, and mature enough, to go on living without her.  I didn't know where to look, or if I would ever find, the strength to do anything at all besides curl up next to her and die myself.

The last time I had any notable contact with my grandmother was over two years ago.  She came back east for a thirty day visit, during which it was my job to care for her every weekday.  It was a miserable experience, and hyper emotional for both of us.  She left at the end of her visit having already said her goodbyes to me.  We stopped calling each other.  We stopped sending cards, and pictures.  We stopped visiting each other.  It's easy to look back now and see that she was weaning me off of her.  She forced me to talk and grow closer with my own mother, to rely on her instead of on my grandmother.  It worked, it seemed, because when I arrived in sacramento last spring, I was fully prepared to step up and see to her arrangements and wishes and details.  I was ready to let her go.  I knew i would be okay.

And I returned home as if from a business trip, focusing only on my mother picking up her own pieces.  I had emerged unscathed.  Today on a whim, I plugged the picture Cd from my trip into the laptop, and was struck with how much I miss her.  I thought of me as a little girl, wishing nothing more than to keep her in my pocket for forever.  I thought of me as a little girl, who knew I was wishing for the impossible, but didn't let it stop me.

  

Wednesday

I spent the last two weeks trying to figure out just how to go about explaining the process that is letting go of the most important person in my life.  The truth is that this whole chain of events was put into place almost four years ago, and that no one ever expected us to make it as far as we did.  She was supposed to have had six months. 

We left the airport that Wednesday afternoon and headed directly to the hospital, assuming that every phone call any of us received en route was the big one, saying that we had come close, but that she was already gone.  We'd been warned, and re-warned, and primed for her appearance...the bruise from her fall out of bed, the swollen fingers and leaking skin from her kidney failure, the shallow breaths and glassy eyes.  The room was hot and uninviting and required constant foaming and gloving and ungloving and refoaming and later that night, when everything was over, I stood in the bathroom deciding if I could ever wash my hands again.  Did I like the smell?  Could I live with it?  It ended up being a no.

And so you stand around for hours, taking turns in a clockwise rotation cracking jokes and making ticking noises and pressing on her cheeks, trying one last time to get her to open her eyes.  You cheer when she does, even if they remind you that no one is there.  Even if they try to convince you that her eyes have disconnected from any and all thought process.  Even if their minky-brown color has already started to cloud, you cheer, and immediately try to do it again.

We stood around a tiny room all afternoon, as doctors and nurses stopped by to remind us that she was dying, and each time more family would crowd into her room, until it was as long as anyone could handle standing there to watch tears and drool roll out of her face.  We invented an unofficial pecking order for private last goodbyes, and all left the room to wait for our turn.

My brothers and I were recently accused of being too close, and too dependent on not just each other, but on our mother as well.  I immediately argued that her dependence on us trumps any and all dependence we have on her, but we do, as a threesome of wayward siblings, certainly share a bond  and so the three of us stood there, encircling our grandmother, taking turns keeping our mother upright and facing the bed. And it was  thanks-giving.  It was laughing to the point of tears, it was poking and prodding and not allowing interruptions until we were okay with it all being over.  It took 25 minutes. 

It was dark outside by the time I was called back to stand watch over my mother, while they disconnected my grandmother.  It was 7:35 pm.  I stood, watching the heart monitor dance around 117 beats per minute.  I watched the saturation monitor blink a silent red rectangle.  I watched my mother and three aunts hold their breath.  I watched Devin fall in the corner at the conclusion of his mom-watching shift.  I watched the entire room progressively sigh as tubes came out, and IV pumps were turned off.  And then I watched her. 

I watched her calm down.  I watched her head stop thrashing.  I watched her chest stop shuddering.  I watched her lips part over and over while she took her last breaths.  I watched the bpm drop to zero, and buried myself into my brothers.  I listened to the ups and downs of the monitors until they came in to turn them off.  I watched the clock roll over to 8:02.  I watched the blood drain from her face, and down her neck while the minister prayed her away.  I tore the calendar page off of the wall, and my aunt called the nurse to come and remove the rest of the tubes and lines and catheters. "I want it all gone", she said, waving her  arms in the air, "Everything". 

And then we set about cleaning her up.  It was this strange form of auto-pilot, probably more primal than anything else, and it struck everyone, to just clean, and wipe, and prepare her for something none of us really knew much about.  It seemed perfectly normal, required even, to send her down the hall with blush on her cheeks and Vaseline on her lips and a fresh sheet draped across her arms to hide the bruising.  Like maybe if they knew she was loved, they could undo it.  Like maybe if we showed her one last time that she was loved, we would all be okay.  Like maybe it was our thank-you to her, albeit thirty minutes too late.

You leave the room with your arms full of stuff...clothing and cards and blankets and get-well-soon balloons...and your arms are so full that for a second, you can almost forget that you are being forced to leave behind the only thing in the room that you actually want.  And then you remember, and you have to go back and make sure she is still there.  You have to go back and make sure she isn't suddenly waiting for you, bright eyed and dressed in polyester pants.  On Wednesday, April 2, 2008, at 9:45 pm Pacific Time, Melba was not.

times up

She had the gift of stopping time and listening well so that it was easy to hear who we could become.
And that was the future she held safe for each of us in her great heart.  You may ask, what now?  And I hope you understand when we speak softly among ourselves and do not answer just yet, for our future is no longer the same without her.

not what I should be posting about

the kitchen is 9/10ths done.  A bit of trimwork still, a little tiling, and moving everything back in.  Already loving it all.  Will be even better when it's...um..done.  You know, like six years from now.

The KI contest albums are due tomorrow.  I built my album weeks ago, and had the plan all set, but never started.  And so I'm sitting here wishing I could just go to bed, but man...less than a day isn't much time to crank one of these bad boys out.  So of course a little more procrastination is in order.

More than likely from exhaustion, the cancer thoughts have returned.  They do every few months.  The raw fear like in the very beginning.  It consumes my thoughts, and this urge to call wells up inside of me, and then the fear squashes it out.  And so I sit.  Because what if this momentary panic is really some sort of sixth sense telling me that this is IT?  That the grapefruit sized tumor that stopped growing a year ago has come back, and that even a sonic jet could not get me there in time.  I promised myself, immediately after her diagnosis, that I was going to sock away the money for our tickets.  Just in case.  Just so that I wouldn't have to worry about not making it.  The money never materialized, and some small part of my rational just said that if we did have to go last minute, it wouldn't be that much of a rush.  It would be merely arriving before a specific time on a specific date.  I would have time to beg and steal and plan a little.

This morning I awoke, and for the first morning in ten, no extra work was waiting for me.  Our plan was to simply hang with the girls.  We've been selling them short for the past bit.  Easy day.

The phone rang, more than usual this morning, and every time, I let it go an extra ring.  because I can't shake this feeling.  I can't shake the fear.  There is no mediacl plan to follow.  No estimate unto her demise.  What is happening here is that we are all just waiting, thankful for each day, that nothing materializes to draw pause or concern.

And so since I am stuck in mini-album land, trying to wrap this thing up in time, wondering if I am already disqualified for stretching the rules a little much, I drug out the BasicGrey album.  I never did show it to her.  many nights I have come across it, and thought to just package it up right there and ship it out.  But I can't.  I won't.  Odd, since the theme was to be bold, and I was, but then I chickened out.  I'm not a secretive person.  This blog must lend some validity to that statement.  But to actually give it to her...that seems almost like accepting that she will be leaving.  And I can't.

So back on the shelf it goes.

And it is so stupidly easy for me to just sit here, or twelve inches to the right of here in scrapland, and lay it all out.  before this, I had never had to think about the follow through.  It turns out that I have none.

Someday.  Medically speaking, sooner than later, i will gather the courage to ship it off.  Maybe I'll even wrap it up in some of the fancy ribbon I won in the contest.  maybe.

the album, if you missed it, is here.

moving on

Last Saturday, in the middle of James' fourth birthday party (more on that later...), my grandmother headed back to California.  For some reason, it is firmly inplanted in my mind that that is the land of milk and honey, and our time in San Diego, I am sure, played a large part in solidifying that notion, but for my grandmother, it is not so much.  For her, California is the nearing first anniversary of her moving into an assisted living facility.  It is a cramped apartment, rules, blan food and sparse visitors.  It is the added proof of age, on top of her license being revoked three years ago.  It is the beginning, or perhaps the middle, of the end.

I've walked around all week in a fog, unable to wrap my mind around just where those thirty days I was so dreading have gone to.  Was she really here that long?  What did we do?  The downside (because of course I can find one) to outliving one's prognosis is that there is simply nothing left to say.  I came to terms with all of this over a year ago.  I said my goodbyes and said my piece, as did she.  Our visit was full of silence.  Hours spent folding clothes together, and matching up socks, while the christian network spoke to us at an ungodly decible.  There is simply nothing of any value left to say, and if her remission should last six more days or six more years, the thought of reopening our relationship is more than I can handle.  I can not handle going back to the beginning, rejecting the notion that her life path is nearing its conclusion.  I can not start to grieve all over again.

And so our visit was just that.  A visit.  Deep conversations and inquiries into her past were replaced with simply being one another's company.  With turning to each other to smile ten thousand times a day.  With adding a dash of cinnamon to her cardboard breakfast cereal.  With having her hair set far too often, just because it feels good to look good.  With making mental note of her every action within the walls of 259, so that when the yet undecided day does come, I can call on those memories and remember her.  Sitting at the table.  Buldozing up the back stairs as not to lose the momentum that can hopefully carry her to the top.  Painting figurines with James.  Sharing a bite of every treat she had with Griffin, who would diligently thank her with a kiss to the knee.

And now, things are back to normal.  The baby can take a nap without being woken up with our yelling over the 700 club.  We have the option of making white rice instead of brown.  I have the blessing of distnace and removal from everything that is happening.  She has gotten to know the girls, as they have gotten to know "Great Melba".  I guess that was all I really wanted, anyways.  For her to know that I am okay.  That I will always be okay.

three more days

Tonight, on our way back across town, I stopped briefly in the driveway, noticing that my grandmother looked like something was wrong.  The past week or so, she has seemed a little off.  Tired, maybe.  I have asked her over and over if something was wrong, if I could get her something, and she has always just said she was fine.  And smiled.  Tonight, I didn't let it go.  I pinpointed what was wrong, and called her on it.

"Are you sure, grandma?  You look sort of sad,"...

And then she burst into tears.  The hidden kind, where you put your head down, and there is no noise or visible moisture, but the rapid rise and fall of shoulder blades lending just enough evidence to the contrary of her words.  She was not all right.

I put my hand on her knee, leaving the car in reverse, and let her go.  As quickly as it had started, she stopped, and raised her head to look at me, and simply said that it was just hard.  Hard.  Knowing that her days are numbered.  Living with the growing frustration towards her shrinking mobility.  Towards her inability to care for us the way she always has.  To be the rock that never needed anything save a hug and some decent company from time to time.

"I'm so scared to leave you," she said, "but I think it will be soon."

And what I'd really like to know from blog-nation is, what the fuck you are supposed to do with that.  What one reply within the boundaries of our solar system was I supposed to have?  I ran on instinct after that.  The instinct to invent a joke that stole just enough momentum from her words to allow me to back down the driveway without blurred vision.  To clam up and turn the conversation as far as possible from it's intended destination.

"whatever happens next week is fine" I said, "just so long as you don't go ruining the last few days of our visit." 

Touching, eh?  Poignant, reassuring.  Now five miles from me, she is preparing for bed, and I hope she has allowed the whole thing to escape her.  I'd hate for her to think I had given her permission to go or anything, because I never will.  I never will.

interim

Did a little scrapping tonight, and thought I'd pop on here for a sec to post about my grandmother.  She arrived into town last Friday for a thirty day visit, and it hit me that I have yet to take one picture of her.  That was the end of my warm fuzzies.

It's gotta be ugly before it gets pretty.  I fear where this has to go, despite the many places I could take it. 

While my mother is working, I am her companion.  From 7 am to 4 pm, for the past three days.  I hate it.  It makes me sick to my stomach.  In one fell swoop, she is both the problem and the victim.  The naseau is with me all day long.  The ache in my back and knot in my throat.  I fear my asshole-ness has reached an all time low.

There is no magic in witnessing a near eighty-five year old woman live with the fact that she can undoubtedly count her remaining years on one hand.  I want it to be over.  I want to walk slowly from a patch of dirt like I did for my grandfather, and to forget the behind the scene's trauma that is getting a person to the end of their card.  (followed immediately by)

I don't ever want her to leave.  Every deep breath she takes for the nine hours she is my responsibility, I want to bundle her up in my arms and run to the emergency room.  Because I can not do this.  I can't even write this.  There are only so many days I can fasten myself into the car, and turn to her, and have her look at me in guilt and divuldge that she has shit her pants.  There are only so many times I can help her squeeze a drop of blood from her fingertip.  There are only so many times I can remind her that her favorite part of any meal...the ending piece of fruit, is no longer a wise choice.  There are only so many times that I can see it, and smell it, and feel it.  There are only so many times that I can realize for the first time that we are reaching the end of the road.

To sit here, eighteen months past her being told she had three months to live, and think these things, and to actually allow them to swim inside brain space, is mind boggling.  I should be thankful.  I should see the inaccurate depth of life span, prescribed all that time ago, as a false prophecy, and be overjoyed.  I should be embracing this time with the understanding that it very well could be my last.  I just can't GET myself to that point.  Mentally and emotionally, I am incapable of the stamina this visit entails for me.  And I shake my head and speak of myself as an absolute friggin jerk.  Surely, anyone else could make better use of this extended gift of life.  So why can't I?

There is anger like I have never experienced.  And frustration.  Resentment at her first proof of life every morning.  I stand at the stove stirring her cereal as if I am trying to scratch the pan, possibly hoping those tiny shrapnels of teflon could bring her peace.  But I don't ever want her to go.

I need her to be six years ago.  I need her to be of sound mind with an eternity of future in front of her.  I need to joke about her crazy crammed pantry, though it is being cleaned out and discarded as I type.  I need to fantasize about laying next to her clubhouse pool one more time, even though her property was sold two weeks ago for half of what she paid for it.  I just need time.  Three days have shown me that this is the one thing I don't have.  I think of Elsie and I wonder if my grandmother just wants to go.  To be where she has always planned of being.  To once again speak with her sister, as it has been quite a jaunt since their last conversation.

I want her off of my couch before it begins to smell like her.  I want her at the portrait studio for her annual portrait, wearing gloves that unmistakably clash with her polyester blouse.

She asked today, of our finacial situation, and as grim and desperate as it is, I could not bring myslef to level with her.  The very thought of her passing a check, and bailing me out one more time, was more than I can handle.  I can not think that truth, that it would be the very last blessing on my life.  That she would cry for the last time over what we have gotten ourselves into, and immediately bail us out.  For the last fucking time.

All of these exapmles and snippets, I guess to say that I have no idea where to go.  I would willingly birth fifteen children in my backyard before admitting the pain I am now certain lies in my immediate future.  And I'm an epidural girl. 

Just over three weeks lie in front of me.  Three weeks of having her here, with our undivided attention, trying to gather the strength and gumption to make them the best ever, despite what I know is just around the bend.

And now, feeling a bit better about that journey, and with allowing it to seem a chore if needed.  My grandmother.  Just trying to stay in it.  So hard to do.  Just trying to stay in it.

I need to stay in it.

gone ten days

headed west to visit my grandma.  to sort through her things with her and make my small dent in the large job that is moving her out of her current home.  She is stronger than we had imagined.  More alive, too.  Her spirits are remarkable well.

and bald.  Balder than Griffin, even, if you can imagine that.  Within the ten days we were all together, tiny black sprouts began along her hairline, and the return of her once behived mane became concrete.  A definite inhabitant of the near future.  But for how long?  The question ran fiercly/silently through the rooms of her house while we were there.  Every action caused reverberation of a single thought. 

Will this be the last time I do this?

The last pot of adobo she will make for us?  The last time my mom will scrub out her trash cans?  The last visit to Sacramento where her face will excitedly greet me?

It is all too much to think about when it is right there in front of me.  When there is visible damage and pain and this swollen middle section that some day will flame and take her from me.  When it isn't just a phone call, but instead one of your lovelies embracing a bald melon because it simply means she can be alive.

But a good trip.  Lots of doing favorite things.  Lots of the Old Spaghetti factory.  Laughing.  Bittersweet and invigorating.  Inspiring.  Peaceful.  Tiring.  And now back to the grind.

I have pictures, and treasures, and bits of here and there to share, but tonight is too late already.  More to come.  More regularly, even.  I promise.

misc.

I only wish I could spell that word out in its entirety.

if only there weren't several other things MUCH more worthy of my best wishes right now.

The lapse in house stress has rebirthed thoughts of my grandmother.  This more than makes up for it, though I am admittedly still in a heavy case of denial.

Since my last post, I have begun to hear the doubt in her voice.  For the first bit, I assumed it was just weakness from her treatment.  Now I know better.  She is scared.  I am scared. 

Am I strong enough, and full enough, to move one full rung up the family ladder?  I wonder more than I can shake my head in aggreance to.

Am I that set?

The downer of the week, and I apologize for that.  My favorite person, as i recently described her to a friend.  And it was no lie or exaggeration.  My favorite person.

Please keep her in your thoughts.

Return To Sender

(when you are done)

Inspired by Ruth to do a little something special for my grandmother, even if in the end it will be for my gain.  There is lots I still don't know about her eighty plus years, and with all these children and miles between us, the opportunities do not present themselves often enough to make a noticable dent in my list.

So a journal jar.  My first.  sSmple, straighforward, encased in the chicken paper that is my current fave.  It will be in the mail to her on Monday; I can't wait to see what she does with it.