Moody Meow

Liberal, lunatic lassie, with mood swings and foot-in-mouth syndrome

The Matriarch Falls

Posted on | August 1, 2004 | No Comments

It’s expected. But expected in the way you expect thunder during a rainstorm, if that makes any sense.

I’ve been avoiding the situation for months. In keeping my distance from South Florida I’ve kept away from the truth. She’s sick. She’s been sick for years but the downturn in the past few months has been hard for me to fathom. I’m in denial, even still. Even after the conversation with Mom where she sobbed because Uncle Mickey is making a home for Gramps, building canary cages and an orchid garden. Why? Because “we figure we have at least fifteen good years with him after she’s gone.” God, what it must have taken for Mom to admit that, epically to me. I know she’s bad off. Calling 911 three times in a week is worse than I expected. But South Florida calls to me and I have to answer. I have to see her, even in her shadowy state.

I say shadowy for a reason. She has always been the beacon, with bright plastic earrings, glowing green eyes and a smile that seemed blessed by the Goddess. But now the handwriting has stopped, the stories stay frozen inside a mind that doesn’t understand the why’s and hows of everything. The worst part is she understands enough to know she’s not right anymore. That there is something terribly wrong. And she fights, god, does she fight. She doesn’t want to forget that she called Mom three times in three days, yelling at her each time for not calling the night before. She forgot my birthday. This is extremely telling for one reason: she never forgets anything. In twenty-eight years on this earth I have always received a card, always. The year before last Gramps sent a silver bracelet, which I still wear every day. I know she didn’t go with him to pick it out. I know the last gift she gave me: my Inca bracelet. But it was from her own jewelry box, so it is that much more precious to me. But she forgets everything now.

She used to be a woman of indefinable strength. The glue for our supremely dysfunctional family. She was the matriarch and she wore the role well. But my mother, a woman of similar strength and grace, has slowly come into the role. It seems strange on her, unwieldy and almost unwelcome. Mom has enough shit to worry about, her business, her marriage, her life. But now, as she always has, she plans and assembles the shambles of a life gone downhill so fast. Mom’s got her same quick laugh, her same way of telling stories. But Mom isn’t her. She can’t be. That’s not the way this works.

So once again things are put into perspective. I threw out the last letter she wrote me, expecting there to be a follow up. But there wasn’t. She can’t write anymore, her hands hurt too much. She has a hard time talking on the phone because of her labored breath. She, who was once the most put together person I knew, never leaving the confines of her bedroom until every hair was in place and the perfect shade of lipstick applied, soils herself because she can’t move. Do you understand what that image does to me? She was grace and dignity, now she is mere fragments.
The squabbles I have had of late with friends seem petty. The hurt feelings I have had seem childish. I’m living with at full capacity. I’m not limited by what my damaged body can manage. I remember what yesterday smelled like and what the sound of her voice felt like when it echoed in the hallowed halls of Notre Dame. All this shit, this infantile crap is meaningless. My grandmother is dying, and for the first time in my life I am terrified that I won’t remember what she smells like. What shade of green her eyes glow. How it felt to have her arms wrapped around me. And as I sit here, full of sorrow and shedding tears I hope that she fights enough until September. I will go and hug her and tell her I love her. And even if she doesn’t consciously remember that I was ever there, I think her heart will understand that her first grandchild loved her more than peanut butter sandwiches and strawberry shortcake. More than Coco-puffs and sherbet.

In my memory I will always be seven, awed at her beauty and her enormous collection of flip-flops. I will remember the smell of Gramps cooking and how she used to sneak me jellybeans and mint candies. I will remember her dancing to Frank Sinatra in the living room, eyes closed as she wrapped her arms around my grandfather, swaying to and fro with grace. She would always break mid-song, and beckon me to her. And we would dance, my bare feet stepping on her perfectly painted toes. And she would smile down at me. God, I loved her smile.

Grannie. Please wait. Just wait until September and then, if its what is best for you, go where there is no pain. Say hello to Big Gramps and Aunt Jonie and remember, deep down, you were always my favorite.

Category: Did I forget to mention?

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