I told her she could go, I told her they were all fucking crazy, but they'd be fine. I told her to go be with my grandfather and her sister. The last thing I said to her was that I loved her. She tried to talk to me then, probably to tell me she loved me too.
All but one of my aunts and uncles were there. Mom had this feeling she needed to go over there for the day. The other two had spent the night. Hospice came to bathe her, and while they were there, she started having breathing problems. The Hospice nurse told them it was time, and that they ALL needed to tell her she could go. They did, and when they rolled her over to clean her as they normally did, she left.
I got the call during a staff meeting. I violated the laws of speed and physics to get there.
When I saw her, I KNEW she was alright. She glowed. Seriously. I knew that wherever she was now, it was a good place, and that I shouldn't worry about her.
This was what I wrote for her eulogy. I never got to read it, but I know she did:
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I’m going to begin by admitting that I began to write this a few months ago. I prayed as the words went from thought to keyboard that enough time would lapse between the act of creation and this moment that I would read the words anew and be surprised at what I had written. I prayed even harder that enough time would lapse so that I might have lost this paper, as I lose many things, mostly in the trunk of my car, and these words would never be spoken. I am one of those people for whom the act of writing is therapeutic and comforting, and so I have written this. I pray it brings you the same comfort as it has brought me. Mom and Nona, I tried to keep this short, but you know me, once I get started...
When I heard the words “brain tumor,” even before I knew the true extent of the damage caused by one simple error in cell division, I reacted as most people would. I began with disbelief, went swiftly into shock, and then merged firmly into anger. When I heard those words for the first time, I was in Wal-Mart. As I stood upon the border of the Pet Department and the Garden Department, I set upon a profanity laden celestial tirade that would have made even Satan himself blush. I explained to the heavens that that this certainly was not fair, that there were surely other people who were more deserving of their wrath, and that if this was not of their doing, I respectfully request that they intercede and fix it. In short, I told the universe, this sucks.
They listened, as they usually do, in silence, and let me ramble away. Later on that evening, I sat down to meditate and get my head back together. I needed to pick up the pieces of my broken emotions, and glue them back into some presentable state. It was only then, when I had quieted my mind, after I had finished giving the universe several pieces of it, that they spoke to me.
It is what it is, the voice in my head whispered. This is the nature of the universe. Nothing we can do can change the nature of things. Everyone has their own journey, like boats sailing across a vast ocean. Some journeys are short, some are long. Many sail in calm seas, but some journeys are a little rougher. There are many paths one can take. This is her path; you are just walking with her for a while. I felt the first peace that I’d felt for a while. I asked the universe that all I have ever wanted for her is that she be happy and free of suffering. No matter what that would mean. So, we came to an understanding, and that became my mission for the 6 months since she was diagnosed. Help her be happy and free of suffering.
She has given me many gifts in her time, many of which she gave me even through her illness and death. There’s a saying that I saw engraved into a picture frame at a store somewhere around here. It said, “Memories should merely indicate where smiles have been.” Over the past few weeks, I have thought back upon the multitude of memories that hang like museum portraits in my mind, priceless treasures.
One of my first memories is how she used to sing to me when I was small. Songs like "Down by the Station," and "Sing a Song." I remember being short and running through the house, around Papou's recliner and around tables and couches. As I speak now, I can her her voice in my ear, singing. I have watched as she rocked all the grandkids, and all the great grandkids. We were all blessed to spend time in her arms. There was peace there that could not be replicated by any means.
If my grandfather had his recliner, she had the Dining Room table. It was like the Round Table, a place where we all came together to eat, talk, eat, talk, and eat. It's where all the kids did their homework, where the bills got paid, where the family business got done. And where every Sunday, we all got together, and had a family dinner.
I have come to terms with the fact that nothing I cook will ever taste as good as her cooking. Her cooking is probably one of the reasons that I am a charter member of the Fluffy Bunny club. I have tried to duplicate some of her recipes and have come out dissapointed. I have realized, though, that I was missing the one ingredient that I could not purchase in any store, but that she had in abundance. Love for her family. I would rather have her cooking right now than a dinner in the finest New York restaurant.
She always watched out for us, physically and emotionally. She used to watch us walk home from Elementary School, and then, once we got in the door, she took care of us intellectually by making sure we did our homework and reading. We didn't get away with anything at her house. If we were in trouble at home, we were in trouble there. It taught us discipline and the overwhelming desire to stay out of trouble.
I didn't get in trouble in school because I knew that by the end of the day, that if my Mom didn't find out, she already knew and my Mom WOULD find out. She helped to teach us respect for others, and respect for our parents if not by education, by sheer force of will.
She had the patience to put up with two teenagers when we moved in for two years. I believe that God himself must have given her the patience of a saint to put up with my sister and me every day for two years. It truly takes someone with great intestinal fortitude to deal with a 16 year old and a 17 year old suddenly thrust into a different situation. If the house were ever quiet (and it rarely was back then), it certainly was not now.
She took excellent care of my Papou, even in his own sickness. Both her and my grandfather provided a constant, no matter what in our lives were changing, they were there for us. It was a major comfort over the years to know that while I was changing, that house, filled with my Yia Yia and Papou’s love, did not.
Even in her sickness and dying, she gave me gifts and lessons.
She gave me the gift and honor of caring for her. I was blessed to be able to feed her, give her medications, and change her. I learned that there were things I swore I’d never be able to do that I could in fact do well. I used to look at my niece and nephew’s diapers and swear I could never do that, despite the fact that I am fascinated by hospital procedures and don’t mind the sight of various fluids. I felt a sense of accomplishment when I was able to help change my grandmother.
She gave me the gift of useful life lessons. Most recently, I learned that when the package says one to three pills, they mean "take one, and maybe later, take the other two." I learned this because I took all three.
In allowing me to walk with her through her journey, she also blessed me with a deeper knowledge and appreciation for family interaction and dynamics. I am a wiser person for this.
Her light touched everyone she met and cared for. I am blessed to say that I am Mary Ann’s granddaughter. I know in my heart that she is now happy and free of suffering and that she is looking down on us today, smiling and proud of the legacy she created and nurtured.
I love you, Yia Yia. Your memory will be with me as long as I live.
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