For Gram

My mother got pregnant with me at a young age accidentally. She married my father, but later showed the strength that is true to her spirit by divorcing him. The 6 years between their marriage’s beginning and end were wrought with turmoil, frequent temporary separations and much stress. It wasn’t until my mother married my step-father when I was 10 that my family unit began to resemble a traditional nuclear family. I’ve said it many times before, and will repeat it many times after this - my step-father, who I now refer to as my dad, is a wonderful man, a wonderful father to my sisters and me, and a wonderful grandfather to my boys and my niece. My biological father is an angry and bitter man who allowed self-pity and pride to stand in the way of a normal, happy life. He has lost most of what matters in life. I spent many years being angry at him, but over the last decade or so, my anger has softened. He no longer occupies much space in my mind at all, but when I do think of him, I feel only pity. What an empty waste his life has become.

The point of this entry, however, is not to talk about any of the aforementioned people. It is rather meant to be a tribute to my grandmother, the one true constant in my life during those formative early years, and through the chaos of my parents’ failing marriage. Regardless of the circumstances in the Anderson household, Gram was beacon of hope, waiting with open arms (and probably some words of advice, both wanted and unwanted for my mother). In the beginning of my life, I had no good father, but I had something even better: two good mothers.

I was the first born grandchild, and I spent most of my life before the age of 10 with my grandmother. I tagged along to all of her coffee dates with friends, I traded foot rubs for lunch at McDonald’s on a weekly basis. I knew her pass code for the ATM machine, and at 6 years old would get money for her while she waited in the car. She had a pool put in when I was 5, and she taught me how to swim. She took me on my first plane ride to North Carolina to visit my aunt Betsy the summer after fourth grade.

Whenever I could, I tried to sleep with Gram. But she, like me now, didn’t sleep well (and she snored like a trucker when she did sleep!) I remember staying up nights, sitting on the couch, staring out the window, watching the headlights of cars on the other side of the valley roll down the mountainside. I can still see her nightgown - floor-length, silk with an orange and white pattern, a safety pin on the collar. I still don’t know why she had a tiny gold safety pin on the neckline of each nightgown, but she always did. She had an artificial valve in her heart which resonated loudly in the silent room: a single tick…tick…tick with every beat of her heart. For years after she died, I kept a wind-up clock on my nightstand, to pretend, for just a short while, that she was still there.

Shortly after my mother married Terry, my grandmother was diagnosed with terminal colon cancer. It was too late. Nothing could be done, aside from trying to make her comfortable as she passed. I have to laugh at those words, though. Is anyone who is dying, regardless of the etiology, ever truly made comfortable? It was a slow and painful death that no amount of morphine could have eased. In the beginning, she tried very hard to maintain a normal semblance of life. I can remember her coming to my first chorus concert in 5th grade. She only made it through a short bit of it before she felt too ill to stay. She waited in the car and slept for the rest of the program.

For 10 months, we watched her die. My poor mother worked full time, then came home to pick up my sister and me from school before driving to my grandparents’ house. She made dinner for them every night, even on the weekends, and provided most of the care my grandmother needed as well. As time went on, it was necessary to have a nurse from hospice to attend to the more critical needs, but still, my mother and my sister and I were there every day without fail. Looking back on that now, I wonder how strong I would be if I were in my mother’s shoes. I suppose you do what you have to do, even if that means nursing your own mother to her death. I didn’t realize then how difficult that time was for my own mother. It’s just another example of how I missed the strength my mother routinely exhibited, and continues to exhibit, until much past the actual event. Only now, in adulthood and as a mother myself, am I able to see her more for the person she really is and less for the person I mistakenly perceived her to be.

At the time, I think I tried to ignore the true mood of the situation. I was only 10, and my mom tried her best not to burden us with any of the stress. We took friends with us over the summer months and swam in the pool. I visited with Gram too, but mostly we played as if nothing had changed. I remember making yarn dolls and hanging them on the curtains in the middle bedroom where she stayed. I believe I even made her buy one from me! I know it was one of the hottest summers on history. I can recall the nurse saying something to the tune of, “you should go outside and watch your grandchildren swim for the last time, Jackie.” My mother was livid that she would make such a comment, and that she would insist that someone who was at the tail end of a terminal illness sit outside in tropical heat. The nurse didn’t return after that comment. My grandmother died on August 13, 1988 one day before my mother’s birthday. 20 years ago. I was 11.

20 years ago seems absurd to me. I can’t believe so much time has passed. Each milestone that I have had has been bittersweet. There’s always an empty spot for her, always the thought and wonder of what she would have said, thought or done. I wonder what she would think of the person I have become. I swear she visited after Jacob was born. I’m not a firm believer in ghosts, but I choose to forget science for a moment. I know in my heart that she saw him - she let me know very clearly that she did. I didn’t have such a clear moment with Andrew. Maybe she knows that I’m not at such a needy time in my life now as I was when Jacob was born. Whatever the case may be, I’m choosing to believe that she’s seen and blessed him too.

I can say with 100% truthfulness that not a single day has passed since her death that I don’t think about her at least once. Sometimes it’s something specific, but most days it’s just a nondescript, vague notion of her. Most days it makes me smile, but I have moments when I cry as if she just died yesterday. The power of a love that deep is amazing to me. It is astounding that we can grieve the loss of a person so much that 20 years later, the wound still feels so fresh. It’s a wound that I hate having, but conversely , I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to have loved and been loved like that.

I have other strong bonds too, it’s not that my grandmother was the only one in my life to whom I feel tied. Of course I love my parents and fear their passing. I love my husband, my sisters, aunt and uncles, friends, and probably more than anyone in the world, my sons. I look now at my boys, especially Jacob, and their bond with my parents. Jacob was in a very similar situation for the first 3 years of his life, as I was for the beginning of mine. My parents were the constant for him, his pillars in the storm. If it were not for them, who knows how he and I would have made out. Even since marrying Greg, and creating a stable home for Jacob, we have all made it a priority to maintain and encourage his bond with my parents. He spends the night there at least once a week, and we see them every day. I worry about the time when they pass, because I know just how heart wrenching that will be for Jacob. But I am so glad that he is able to experience that same intense love that I did, and I wouldn’t change that for the world. I’m thankful once again for the legacy passed down from my grandmother - a strong love and devotion to her family, a love that weathers all storms and transcends even our own mortality.