My
grandmother is terminally ill with breast cancer, and although this may be a
dreary topic for Valentine’s Day, it seems to be all that’s eating away at my
thoughts this week.
I don’t think I should be posting
this, simply because I have this misfortune streak, where whatever I say is
both out of line and horribly misunderstood, but I feel like I should post this
anyways. It’s a bit of a catharsis, one might say? Either way, I feel like I
should get some things off my chest regarding the issue:
Now my grandmother and I were
never particularly close, so I wouldn’t benefit from “I’m sorry”
notes, but I still can’t help pondering her death.
In all honesty I am happy for
her.
That may sound like an odd thing
to say in regards to the death of an individual, but I truly am happy for her.
She’s made it. This is the final chapter, and she’s made it to the end.
I might as well express my
feelings towards death now, before everyone reading decides I’m a heartless
bitch: I prefer to feel a sense of comfort for the end of a life—an end
regarding old age, mind you—this person, grays now adorning their tired heads,
have lived and experienced life. I like to think—I genuinely hope—they’ve
experienced live to its absolute fullest. That they have done everything they
would have liked; that they’ve had both pleasant and unpleasant surprises; that
they enjoyed living. And that this last chapter is a bit of comfort for them:
it’s over. All the bad things one experiences, all the fears: I like to think
they evaporate and only the good memories are left. Or if they have no good
memories, that they take comfort in the fact the bad things won’t matter
anymore.
I like to think they’re visited
by loved ones, if they believe in such a thing. That their souls drift to give
little presents to the living, if they believe this is so. That they see their own
version of the pearly gates, if that’s what they believe in. My grandmother
believed only a finite number of people make it to heaven.
I genuinely hope she’s on the
list.
My grandfather died a few years
ago, and I like to believe they’ll be nagging each other in the heaven they
believe in again, grandfather cooking grandmother her meals, despite the pain
he felt in his joints, all because of love.
Grandaddy was a blue eyed devil
from Texas whom ran away to Mexico from being drafted to Vietnam. He spoke
enough Spanish to survive and hold a job, and was content mining the land
alongside his friends, ‘til he met a woman in a laundry mat and fell in love on
sight. He nagged her into marriage, despite her many children, and raised them
as his own, along with a pair of twins he had with this woman together. His
name was Anthony, but everyone called him “Antonio” or “Tony”.
Grandmother grew to love that “charming”
man eventually. He was her second husband, and a much harder worker than her
first, a charming musician (another white boy, ginger, green eyes). He put
bread on the table. He took care of the kids. He was kind to her (I think. No
one has ever said otherwise).
One day, he let it slip he was
from Texas, and she demanded they immigrate to the United States. He received pardon
and brought his family over.
They were never saints. They were
never the perfect parents. They never treated all their children equally, but
grandfather was always a kind man when we visited (of my sisters and I, I
visited the least. I still don’t know why). Grandmother was a slightly
different story.
She never loved me, and I can’t
blame her. Like I said, I was never there. I was not there enough for her to
know me at all, and she was known well for her quick temper. She gave me the
time of day, and in retrograde, I’m grateful for that.
My father is the oldest child of
her first marriage. I’ve grown up hearing many stories from his childhood, and
the childhoods of his siblings from the first marriage. Some were fun, some not
so fun. Despite this, I don’t doubt she loved them. I also don’t doubt they all
love her.
Now, in her final moments, there
are tears and quarrels and silence, but above all else, there’s love.
I’m glad.
I’m glad they’re all worried over
trying to be there during the end. And I’m glad they’re mourning.
There’s love in that family.
I don’t think I’m of any use
during these last moments, besides maybe a bit of comfort. So I’m not
completely sure why I go on the visits to my grandmother’s myself. I’m glad I
do, though. I want to be there with everyone else when it happens. I’ll be
weeping too, but I’ll be weeping for them: for her children, who loved her so
dearly and won’t be seeing her again for quite some time.
I pity the living the most.
In the end, I don’t think there’s
much I could ever say to my grandmother, spare maybe a “thank you”. Thank you
for giving birth to and raising my father. Though you were never the best as
far as I can tell from the stories I’ve been told, you must’ve done something
right, because I couldn’t ask for a better father.
“Thank you, and I’m sorry.” I’m
sorry for never being there, I guess. I’m sorry for not being what you wanted,
if you expected anything of me at all. I’m sorry for not existing (I don’t know
what this means yet)? I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I feel as though I
should definitely apologize for something.
“Thank you, and good luck.” I still
genuinely want you to see heaven.
“Thank you, and goodbye.”
[edit] She just pasted on.
Nikola Strange.
