Mourning Call

My brother phoned this morning to tell me that my maternal grandmother passed away last night. I've written in this blog about my father's parents, the ones with the farm. But I've never mentioned my mother's parents. Though my paternal grandparents lived hundreds of miles from where I grew up, and my maternal grandparents lived the next town over, we were always much closer in relationship if not in distance to my father's parents.

My mother's father was a sadistic old bastard who used to lock her in a closet when she was little because she was afraid of the dark and he thought it was funny when she screamed. Similiarly, when I was a child, he used to stick out his false teeth in an expression that I can only describe as reminiscent of the alien in the film Alien. I was too young to understand what was happening, but I didn't think teeth were supposed to come out that far. No one told me that his teeth were false or what that meant, and I was horrified by the act. The more I cried, the farther out he would stick them, making faces and laughing the whole time. I did not cry when he died when I was ten. He was a tobacco farmer who smoked two packs a day. He died of emphysema, and I thought it was justice.

And then there was my grandmother. She had been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and bipolar disorder when my mother was five. When she wasn't committing literally crazy acts, like trying to burn down the bar my aunt worked in or chasing my grandfather through the house with a butcher knife, she was sitting practically catatonic in the livingroom holding a cigarette that had burned down to little more than a stick of ash, the slightest puff of air threatened to send it tumbling into her lap. Every item of clothing she owned contained numerous cigarette burns.

When I was about seven she had a stroke and became paralyzed on her right side. Her speech became slurred; she lost all movement in her arm; and she could barely move her leg. She could no longer stand or walk without assistance. My grandfather could not take care of her, so he put her in a nursing home where she has remained for over two decades.

After my grandfather died, we used to get my grandmother out for holidays, bring her home for Thanksgiving dinner or to exchange Christmas gifts. She was always eager to leave the nursing home, waiting for us in the lobby when we arrived. But after a couple of hours, she would ask to be taken back. I guess no matter what we think of it, it was home to her.

She had another series of strokes about two years ago, and she's been scarcely cognizant since. She has been in and out of the hospital and hardly knows my mother, aunt, or uncle anymore. I haven't seen her in nearly five years.

Now I am a little sad because I do not feel sad. She was my mother's mother. I carry part of her DNA. She lived a difficult and confused life, and now she is gone. These are the facts. I wish there were more, but wishing cannot make it so.