There was also something I had that no one even came close to having: my grandparents. I really want to focus on my grandmother. She is like nothing you have ever seen before in your entire life. Most people don't even understand until they either meet her or see a picture of her. She's not some frail old lady with gray hair, sitting in an old armchair in a dusty house knitting a sweater. She doesn't drive an old Buick that's missing a hubcap and has scratches in the paint; she drives a new, big-ass champagne-colored Lincoln Town Car with leather seats and a CD player so she can listen to her Christmas music year round. She doesn't wear old dingy sweaters from 50 years ago; she shops at Macy's and JC Penny's like it's nobody's business. Her closet is chock full of colored pants and tops in every color of the freaking rainbow and then some. With 50 pairs of shoes to match, the majority of them gold heels. And whenever she bought something for herself, she would buy a shirt in the same color for my grandpa so they matched all the time. This is what they were famous for. She would pick out what she was going to wear in the morning, and then lay out a matching outfit for him to put on. No one else I knew had grandparents that always matched. And everywhere she would go, she was always dressed to the nines: her blonde hair neatly poofed, curled and held in place by a thick layer of Final Net; gold rings on every finger with gold necklaces and matching earrings; carefully applied eye makeup and lipstick. Let's just say she couldn't walk into any room without people noticing her.
She was born in 1928, a middle child in a family of seven sisters and one brother: Anne, Margaret, Rita, Penny, Josephine, Joyce, Bridget & Alowishus (Al). I love listening to stories about her childhood, like how all of the sisters having to share bathwater because they were so poor and how they would all fight over who got to bathe first. Then the competition when they were all older of whose boobs were the biggest and whose boyfriend was the cutest.
When I was still a tiny girl, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents (their house was like my daycare). She would dress me up in her blonde wigs and take pictures. She would help me construct things out of Play-Doh in her kitchen. She would take her false teeth out and sneak up on me, nearly making me cry because it was so frightening. Now that I'm older, I can look back and really appreciate how good she was to me, and what a significant impact she had on my life.
She's an incredibly strong woman, and she raised my mother to be one as well. I've loved her so much that, at an early age, I convinced myself that she would always be here, that I wouldn't have to live a day without her. But recently, I have reluctantly faced the realization that this isn't true.
She has been ill for nearly a month and a half now, stuck in the hospital for three weeks and hasn't been able to get out of bed. For a woman who's always up and out shopping or having lunch with her gal pals, it's hit her pretty hard. She can't stand that she's helpless, and that people have to take care of her. I'm usually a decently wordy person, but I can't even begin to describe how seeing her like this has made me feel.
My mom and I sat down in the hospital lounge one night and just cried. When I thought about not having her here, not hearing her voice when I answer the phone, not being able to wrap my arms around her and tell her I love her...it just made me sick. Her sweet face, her small hand inside mine, her familiar smile...I just can't let go. I told my mom "I won't be able to make it," and she said "We will make it together."
Yesterday I got a call from the hospital and heard my grandma's tired voice on the other end of the line. She'd often joke about death, or talk about it like it's no big deal. But now she's been in such pain that she's asked multiple times for the doctors to just let her go home to fall asleep peacefully until God takes her. But through the sobs during that phone call, she said "I have to keep fighting. I'm not ready yet; I love everyone too much."
I've been wondering what must be going through her head, what it must be like to think that soon she might have to leave this earth. Can you even fathom that one day, you won't be here? That you won't wake up in the morning, brush your teeth and get dressed for the day? You won't drive anywhere anymore; your car won't take up any space on the road. You won't go out to eat with your friends and order your favorite dinner. Every thing my grandma loves about her life, she is faced with leaving it all behind.
I feel like I still have so much to see and do in my life. I hope I have a lot of time left to get it all accomplished. But spending the rest of all that time without her makes it seem a bit more difficult. I do know now, however, that I will never take her for granted again as long as I still have her. Sometimes I would miss her phone call in the evening, and just say well, I can call her back tomorrow night. Now I want to hear her voice as often as possible so I can tell her I love her.
I hate that it's mandatory for us to let people go in life. It's actually one of the only things we all have in common. I'm so tired of phrases such as "life life to the fullest" and "live like you're dying" and whatever else. I like what they mean, but come on, change it up a bit. I have one similar, but I believe everything sounds more beautiful in Italian :
L'amore al massimo, vivere fino all'ultimo.
(Love to the fullest, live until the last.)
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