Losing My Memaw
The day my grandmother died, my world felt like it had ended. I had quit work and moved home in order to be with my grandmother in her last months. She was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and was given 6 months to live. She had always had abdominal pain and had been back and forth to the hospital for various reasons, but she always complained about the abdominal pain. Finally, on the last visit to the hospital, they did some sort of scan or MRI or x-ray and discovered the cancer.
They had performed chest scans before but never scanned below her chest, so the cancer was overlooked. It still makes me angry to this day to know that they simply overlooked to what was obvious to me in retrospect. Of course, seeing the past is always 20-20.
It was only my mom and grandmother and me in the hospital room when the doctor came in to tell us about the hateful cancer. He gave the information to us in a very matter-of-fact manner. The doctor said she had 6 months at best to live, but she only ended up living for 2 months more. I don’t think I immediately grasped the seriousness of what he was telling us at first. My mind was simply in a state of disbelief and my mind simply rejected the information. I tend to disassociate from my feelings when getting really bad news and that is what happened to me at that moment. I still bury my feelings even now.
My grandmother accepted the news better than the rest of us. She stoically received the news and in turn ended up trying to comfort us. She kept telling us that everyone’s time comes up and it was simply her time. She never ever did feel sorry for herself, either before or after that day. I left the room to call my uncle, as my mom was too upset to make the call. I got his voicemail and asked him to call as soon as he could; I feel bad that I left her diagnosis on voicemail, but I felt like the best way to give bad news is just to come out with it. Delaying does not change the outcome of bad news.
My memories of the time up until she died are murky at best; I think I've blocked them out because they are too sad to remember. Her cancer progressed quickly, her pain was so awful, yet she never complained. It hurt her to go to the bathroom; it was torture hearing how much it hurt her to do one of life’s most basic tasks. Eventually the amount of pain medication and/or the progression of the cancer began to affect her mind, she was talking about crazy stuff was prone to rambling. We were with her around the clock, mom dealing with the brunt of caring for her, and me trying so hard to ease the burden on my mom, but failing because I understood so little about death, especially the death of a parent. Hospice came to help, especially in monitoring and administering the various medications, but they were also instrumental in giving mom an ear and time for mom to just leave and go take care of herself.
I imagine my mother must have known something was wrong. I am sure she would have noticed a change in memaw’s breathing, especially when the death rattle began. I imagine that there would have been silence in the house at the time, no televisions or radios playing, only the slow, sad rhythm of memaw’s last breaths, punctuated by my mom’s sobs. Since she was at home, I imagine there would not have been the piercing long beep from a machine that signals loss of heartbeat. I can see my mom entering the room and taking my grandmother’s hand. I can see my mom crying, the tears falling silently down her face. I hear her sniffling, trying to keep it together, to show my unconscious grandmother that she is being strong, trying to hold it together until the end.
The yellow of my memaw’s skin would have been overlooked I am sure. At the end all you can really notice or see is the one that you love. You don’t see their imperfections, physical or otherwise. You don’t see the bruises left by so many IV sticks. You don’t see the gauntness of their face, the thinness of their skin. Seeing the one you love on death’s doorstep makes you see through a lens of memories, a lens of grief and loss and fear at having to live without this person’s love. Instead of seeing the person on the bed dying, what you really see is an internal series of pictures and sounds, a movie of the heart, playing in high speed through your head. If you have ever seen somebody die, than you can understand how hard it is to bear witness to such a sad event. Even a death that is expected is not any easier to bear. Death, by its very definition, means finality, an ending, and a stopping point from which there is no return. Death, like life, is a one way trip.
The day my grandmother died, I was not there at home. It was a day where hospice or my mom, I forget which, told me I needed to get away and take care of myself for a day, to give myself a break. I agreed and thought surely to be just gone one day wouldn’t change anything. I was wrong; she died when I left. I went to have lunch at Copper Cellar on the Strip with my friend Charley, and she died when I left. I remember mom calling to tell me when I was at lunch, and I held it together then (thank God for my ability to disassociate), but when we got back to Charley’s I lost it. I cried more and for so hard than I have ever cried, before. Mom had me wait at Charley’s until they took my grandmother to the mortuary. Memaw died in my bedroom, while I was gone. I will never stop thinking that fate someone tricked me to leave, so that she would have the peace and space to die.
Memaw died on June 22, the day before my mom’s birthday. We were so unsure whether to give my mom her present, a luggage set, or not. We eventually did give her the luggage, but very low-key, and we certainly did not celebrate. I felt so bad for my mom; my uncle Jack had also died a couple of weeks before; I can’t remember if we ever told Memaw or not.
The day of my Memaw’s funeral services was a hot and sticky day. It was late June in East Tennessee which meant the air was thick and the heat was suffocating. The breezes would have been a hot friction against your face and body, an unwelcome caress. I remember vividly was the mauve color of my memaw’s coffin. The kaleidoscope of colors from the flowers made me feel dizzy and the cloying perfume from both the flowers and the attendees made me nauseated. I can hear then hushed murmurs of so many people, friends and family. This was our 2nd funeral in a week’s time, my great Uncle Otis having died a week prior.
I sat on the first row, on the left-hand side of the mortuary, about ten feet from my memaw’s coffin. At the time I didn’t know what a dead body was supposed to look like but I surely knew that the person in the coffin did not look like my memaw. Her skin was so pale, so thin, a cross between tissue paper and rubber. She did not look like herself at all. Her hair was too poufy; her lips were brought together in a tight, thin line which made her look like unsmiling. I was angry that the morticians did such a poor job, but mostly I was sad. Her death was real to me at that moment.
I remember turning around and seeing Heather Spurgeon on the row behind me. Her face was the last I remember seeing before I felt my heart explode and my soul shriveled up. Grief tore through me so deeply, in a manner not felt before or since. Everything in my world was reduced to grief and hurt. Nothing could console me though I felt hands on me. I do not remember who I collapsed into, who held me up. I cannot remember much after the point where I lost it. I can’t remember a single word of the services. Memories of that hour are just fragments, much like my heart. I remember intense anger on the way to the graveyard because people on the street coming the other way refused to pull over in respect, as is the Southern customer. To this day I stop each and every time when I see a funeral procession. I do not remember much about the graveside services either. My pain is so great all these years later, so much that I have only been to visit her grave once or twice. The memories of that day are so hurtful, the sense of loss so great, that I do not trust myself to remain sane or composed if I were to visit her grave. I know that sounds disrespectful and awful, but it for me it is quite the opposite. I want to remember my memaw for who she was when she was alive. I don’t want my memories of her to be overshadowed by the intensity of my grief. One day I may go visit her grave but I don’t know when that day will be. Besides, I know she is not there in that rectangle of earth so when I want to visit her I look inward instead.
They had performed chest scans before but never scanned below her chest, so the cancer was overlooked. It still makes me angry to this day to know that they simply overlooked to what was obvious to me in retrospect. Of course, seeing the past is always 20-20.
It was only my mom and grandmother and me in the hospital room when the doctor came in to tell us about the hateful cancer. He gave the information to us in a very matter-of-fact manner. The doctor said she had 6 months at best to live, but she only ended up living for 2 months more. I don’t think I immediately grasped the seriousness of what he was telling us at first. My mind was simply in a state of disbelief and my mind simply rejected the information. I tend to disassociate from my feelings when getting really bad news and that is what happened to me at that moment. I still bury my feelings even now.
My grandmother accepted the news better than the rest of us. She stoically received the news and in turn ended up trying to comfort us. She kept telling us that everyone’s time comes up and it was simply her time. She never ever did feel sorry for herself, either before or after that day. I left the room to call my uncle, as my mom was too upset to make the call. I got his voicemail and asked him to call as soon as he could; I feel bad that I left her diagnosis on voicemail, but I felt like the best way to give bad news is just to come out with it. Delaying does not change the outcome of bad news.
My memories of the time up until she died are murky at best; I think I've blocked them out because they are too sad to remember. Her cancer progressed quickly, her pain was so awful, yet she never complained. It hurt her to go to the bathroom; it was torture hearing how much it hurt her to do one of life’s most basic tasks. Eventually the amount of pain medication and/or the progression of the cancer began to affect her mind, she was talking about crazy stuff was prone to rambling. We were with her around the clock, mom dealing with the brunt of caring for her, and me trying so hard to ease the burden on my mom, but failing because I understood so little about death, especially the death of a parent. Hospice came to help, especially in monitoring and administering the various medications, but they were also instrumental in giving mom an ear and time for mom to just leave and go take care of herself.
I imagine my mother must have known something was wrong. I am sure she would have noticed a change in memaw’s breathing, especially when the death rattle began. I imagine that there would have been silence in the house at the time, no televisions or radios playing, only the slow, sad rhythm of memaw’s last breaths, punctuated by my mom’s sobs. Since she was at home, I imagine there would not have been the piercing long beep from a machine that signals loss of heartbeat. I can see my mom entering the room and taking my grandmother’s hand. I can see my mom crying, the tears falling silently down her face. I hear her sniffling, trying to keep it together, to show my unconscious grandmother that she is being strong, trying to hold it together until the end.
The yellow of my memaw’s skin would have been overlooked I am sure. At the end all you can really notice or see is the one that you love. You don’t see their imperfections, physical or otherwise. You don’t see the bruises left by so many IV sticks. You don’t see the gauntness of their face, the thinness of their skin. Seeing the one you love on death’s doorstep makes you see through a lens of memories, a lens of grief and loss and fear at having to live without this person’s love. Instead of seeing the person on the bed dying, what you really see is an internal series of pictures and sounds, a movie of the heart, playing in high speed through your head. If you have ever seen somebody die, than you can understand how hard it is to bear witness to such a sad event. Even a death that is expected is not any easier to bear. Death, by its very definition, means finality, an ending, and a stopping point from which there is no return. Death, like life, is a one way trip.
The day my grandmother died, I was not there at home. It was a day where hospice or my mom, I forget which, told me I needed to get away and take care of myself for a day, to give myself a break. I agreed and thought surely to be just gone one day wouldn’t change anything. I was wrong; she died when I left. I went to have lunch at Copper Cellar on the Strip with my friend Charley, and she died when I left. I remember mom calling to tell me when I was at lunch, and I held it together then (thank God for my ability to disassociate), but when we got back to Charley’s I lost it. I cried more and for so hard than I have ever cried, before. Mom had me wait at Charley’s until they took my grandmother to the mortuary. Memaw died in my bedroom, while I was gone. I will never stop thinking that fate someone tricked me to leave, so that she would have the peace and space to die.
Memaw died on June 22, the day before my mom’s birthday. We were so unsure whether to give my mom her present, a luggage set, or not. We eventually did give her the luggage, but very low-key, and we certainly did not celebrate. I felt so bad for my mom; my uncle Jack had also died a couple of weeks before; I can’t remember if we ever told Memaw or not.
The day of my Memaw’s funeral services was a hot and sticky day. It was late June in East Tennessee which meant the air was thick and the heat was suffocating. The breezes would have been a hot friction against your face and body, an unwelcome caress. I remember vividly was the mauve color of my memaw’s coffin. The kaleidoscope of colors from the flowers made me feel dizzy and the cloying perfume from both the flowers and the attendees made me nauseated. I can hear then hushed murmurs of so many people, friends and family. This was our 2nd funeral in a week’s time, my great Uncle Otis having died a week prior.
I sat on the first row, on the left-hand side of the mortuary, about ten feet from my memaw’s coffin. At the time I didn’t know what a dead body was supposed to look like but I surely knew that the person in the coffin did not look like my memaw. Her skin was so pale, so thin, a cross between tissue paper and rubber. She did not look like herself at all. Her hair was too poufy; her lips were brought together in a tight, thin line which made her look like unsmiling. I was angry that the morticians did such a poor job, but mostly I was sad. Her death was real to me at that moment.
I remember turning around and seeing Heather Spurgeon on the row behind me. Her face was the last I remember seeing before I felt my heart explode and my soul shriveled up. Grief tore through me so deeply, in a manner not felt before or since. Everything in my world was reduced to grief and hurt. Nothing could console me though I felt hands on me. I do not remember who I collapsed into, who held me up. I cannot remember much after the point where I lost it. I can’t remember a single word of the services. Memories of that hour are just fragments, much like my heart. I remember intense anger on the way to the graveyard because people on the street coming the other way refused to pull over in respect, as is the Southern customer. To this day I stop each and every time when I see a funeral procession. I do not remember much about the graveside services either. My pain is so great all these years later, so much that I have only been to visit her grave once or twice. The memories of that day are so hurtful, the sense of loss so great, that I do not trust myself to remain sane or composed if I were to visit her grave. I know that sounds disrespectful and awful, but it for me it is quite the opposite. I want to remember my memaw for who she was when she was alive. I don’t want my memories of her to be overshadowed by the intensity of my grief. One day I may go visit her grave but I don’t know when that day will be. Besides, I know she is not there in that rectangle of earth so when I want to visit her I look inward instead.
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