it's been a long time since i've listened to the counting crows' recovering the satellites.
"i guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower..."
it's strange how months attach themselves to memories. wistful or malevolent.
like grandmother. like cancer.
"the smell of hospitals in winter."
i remember. those last days were stark (county) and grandma on her back, in a bed. i'd never seen her that way before. i brought pizza and we chuckled about small things. i watched her chest move up and down, breathing.
"...hold on to these moments as they pass."
the last time i went, we talked of nashville, while i held my sleeping baby nephew on my lap. she held my hand a lot. her eyes were tired, so she looked at the ceiling as she spoke. my nephew-holding arm was asleep, tingly. my grandma-held hand sweaty. i followed her gaze up to the drop ceiling tile of the bland room. i assured her that i would be alright in nashville. i had a job, a place to live. friends. emergency contacts, like 911 and poison control.
she looked at me suddenly.
"honey?"
"yes grandma?"
"do you feel my hand?"
"yes grandma."
"it's warm, isn't it?"
"yes."
"that's because i'm alive. and you're alive. so. dive in, honey, dive in."
"i will, grandma. i promise."
that semester, i had been taking a class on counseling (i was still studying to become a therapist then) and my professor had spent the most recent class teaching us how to say goodbye. he stressed the importance of saying goodbye effectively, not merely saying see ya later, when you know you won't.
i was leaving for nashville in five days.
when it was time to go, i held my grandmother's hand in both of mine, and looked her in the eye.
"i love you grandma," i said. "goodbye."
"goodbye honey" she replied, looking back at me. (was that a wink? grandma never winked...) "i love you too."
hey anne. surfed in from blogger main page sometime back and bookmarked your blog cos i like your writing. i'm glad you like 'a long december' too. It's just so ... timeless. btw, i think your grandma's totally cool.
thanks for coming around, chuckie. hope you stick around awhile.
This post is so touching. I didn't say good-bye to my grandmother. I don't regret it because I know the words were stuck in my throat and I couldn't get them out even if I used an ice pick. But, still...I can see what I missed by not saying the words.
kathryn,
it's all in the spirit...we said our goodbyes with our eyes and hands as much as we did with our words. and we don't always get neat, tidy goodbye and walk away forever knowing it closure.
i've yet to say goodbye to my father, 5 years after his death.
do i know you?
how did you find this little place?
welcome in any case...
Posted by: bananie at December 4, 2002 07:32 PM
ann(i)e,
this is exactly what i would have said to my grandma if she hadn't been in a coma. i feel like i got to. i feel like her eyes, behind that dark curtain of her mind, said all this anyway. or at least goodbye. hello. goodbye.
thank you for this moment, dear. i'm holding on to it like the rest of them.
Posted by: [jp/p] at December 5, 2002 03:56 AM
(i'll come back to these words.)
It is astounding how difficult it can be to truly say and mean "good-bye". We all take it for granted... and sometimes, when it is almost too late, we assume that we will all see each other again.
Beautiful entry. Thank you.
Posted by: Maria at December 5, 2002 10:11 AM
I never knew a grandmother. They were gone before I came, so I was particularly blessed by yours and your parting exchange. Your writing, Annie, my, my, keep doin' it! It just gets "gooderah and gooderah"!
'goodbye' from 'god-be-with-you' after all....
See, Annie, you're writing it. Can't wait to see you again.