Granny

My granny was recently diagnosed with stage 4 bone cancer, and upon leaving the hospital today, was enrolled in hospice care.

My mother started breaking the news to me on Thursday night, and provided a few more details last night.  It takes a while for things to set in for me, and my sorrow has truly manifested itself today, breaking in these intense waves of sorrow and grief throughout the day.  My reaction to news like this is odd, but predictable.  At first, I take it in stride, and I think to myself, "Wow, you're taking this really well."  I find out how wrong I was to think I was handling it well when the information really burrows into my mind, and the ramifications start galloping to the forefront of my thoughts.  

Enough about me.  Or at least...enough about my grief.  Let me tell you why I'm so grieved.  I believe that from the time I was in the third grade on up to the time I moved in with Michael, I saw my granny just about every day.  She was a part of my daily life, routine, and thoughts, almost as much as my own mother.  We lived so close to her, for so much of my life.

 I will readily admit that my granny is not a perfect being, but I think this makes her even better.  My granny is best described as a "character".  She has more in common with Scarlett O'Hara than should render her likeable--and yet I still adore her.  She can be impatient, and sometimes says cruel things.  Her temper flares, often.  She is a smidge vain, but it is difficult to fault her for it because she really is beautiful--it isn't her fault that she knows it. Some of my favorite memories are of watching her put on her makeup.  It was a process carried out with such precision, executed with the ruthless grace of an experienced surgeon.  She told me once that she had been coloring her hair (blonde, of course) and smoking since she was a very young teen (against her mother's wishes, of course). I always picture her as that girl--the one who wanted to grow up so fast, with blonde hair, stubbing out red lipstick-stained cigarette butts.

  
She picked my grandfather out to marry by spying on him from a hole in the wall in the girl's locker room, when he and a bunch of other boys went swimming for gym class (they swam naked, back the day).  "I said I wanted that one," she would tell me. She got him, and was it any wonder? She can be utterly charming, when so inclined.

As a grandmother, I admit that she does not always conform to societal standards.  From her mouth I have heard some truly inventive curses, and learned many words that would allow me to fit in with a construction crew.  But like some of the best grandmothers, she can cook.  Biscuits, fried chicken, chocolate pie, and a gravy so dark and rich that I coined it "motor oil gravy" were all things that I begged her to cook.  Best of all, however, is her ability to make each of her grandchildren feel special.  I can remember sitting on her lap and letting her rock me, even when I was too big for that sort of thing.  From time to time, she would take one of my hands in hers and run her fingers over the palm, exclaiming over how soft it was. She always  knew what to say to make me feel smart, beautiful, and above all, loved.

So many memories beg to be written as I think of her now, and yet many aren't distinct because they were just part of the daily routine. Like giving her a baleful stare through the storm door as she banished my cousin and I to the front porch in the summers, because "children should play outside--you're not gonna stay up under me all day!" Handing her blackberries with purple-stained fingers from the slings we'd made of our shirts, hoping we had finally gathered enough for her to make a cobbler.  Brushing her hair and giving her manicures and pedicures upon her suggestion that we "play spa".  Getting off the bus after school and sitting in her tiny kitchen, drinking coffee with her and eating cream cheese on crackers.  Stealing wedges of peeled potatoes, with my mother and aunts gathered in the kitchen while she was at the stove, and they planned out family get-togethers.  Listening to her talk about the Christmas ornaments that were special to her as we helped put up the tree. Hearing her coach every grandchild to reply to the question"Why are you so pretty?" with "Because I look like my granny." Watching her carefully as she cooked, so I could learn how to make the things she made with little effort (and no measuring, of course).


There's just so much, and it is hard to accept that she will be gone, soon.  Much like it is the case with my father, I grieve mostly for what Elizabeth will miss.  How will she understand who I am and how I ended up this way if she can't meet people who were clearly so influential--people who formed an important part of some of the best and worst times in my life?  I know and understand that it is the way of things, but it does not make accepting it any easier.  I can only hope that I can do justice to their memories, and that she'll get enough of a glimmer of what they were to me through those.  I know that I was really lucky, and I am thankful that there are so many memories that I can share.
 
I love you, Granny.  I will miss you more than I can ever express.  Thank you for being my granny.