A year ago

Yesterday was one year since my grandmother passed and I used some free time last week to write some of my thoughts down.  I thought it would be a nice story to share to get myself started on this blog again.  For those of you that knew her, I hope you find a little comfort from it.  It’s a little more personal that I typically share with everyone, but I know that some of you who have read it, have said you enjoyed it, and it brought back a lot of memories for you.

Today marks one year since my grandmother died. And out of the last 365 days, not one has gone by without her being in my thoughts or dreams.

Living directly across the street from her for the first 21 years of my life, one would think that I would have been extremely close with her as a child. While I spent a lot of time with her, I don’t think I had a full appreciation for her until much later in life.

Mary Jo Swain was tough love. She could be a hard-headed and unforgiving, and sometimes I found these traits very difficult to understand as a kid. She had a hard childhood in a large family where the needs clearly outweighed the resources. She learned self reliance early on in life. Her father wasn’t around and her mother died when she was a young adult. She married my grandfather at a young age and raised several of her younger siblings. She and my grandfather had six kids of their own; three boys and three girls. They raised their family on a modest income in the same house on Maryland Avenue that she lived in until the day she died…the same house I grew up across from.

As a very young child I remember tender moments with her. Sleeping over, laying in her big king size bed with soft silky sheets...drifting asleep as she lightly tickled my stomach…sipping from her coffee cup that I knew my mom would not approve of…using a new towel every time I came in from the pool…leaving dripping bathing suits balled up on the bathroom floor…and consequently getting reprimanded for both.

Summer days would be spent in the pool, and she or my grandfather would sit and watch…yelling every time us kids ran too fast, almost took someone out by diving on top of them, splashed too much water out, or played on the rope that separated the shallow end from the deep end (which for some reason was always tempting to sit on or tumble over).

There were cookouts and holiday meals. I have a vivid memory of her standing in the kitchen mixing a huge batch of macaroni salad in a big aluminum pot. No one could make macaroni salad like she could. Holiday turkeys were always set out on the kitchen table to be sliced as needed by each person, and there was something about her gravy that I’m sure no one will ever be able to exactly duplicate.

Christmas was one of her favorite holidays. She had a fake Christmas tree that was all white, and only decorated it with red ornaments. We would always pick a night, and I would help her wrap gifts for hours…always writing the names on them because she would forget to.

She cooked dinner every night. Her kitchen cabinets were cluttered with a mish mash of different plates, cups, and silverware from at least 10 different place settings, and unless it was a holiday, no one’s utensils or dinnerware ever matched. On the rare occasion that she didn’t make a home cooked meal, she and my grandfather enjoyed ordering Italian cold cuts or pepperoni pizzas.

There were weekly card games with Aunt Nook and Uncle Ed…which frequently seemed to coincide with a night that I would stay. She would put me to bed and I could hear them argue over who was cheating who from around the corner as they sit at the kitchen table and I lay on her bed watching television. I can remember the cold breeze from her air conditioner blowing directly on me as I lay there. There was something about being in that huge bed all snuggled up with the cold air coming down.

She and my grandfather took me to Disney World twice…although, I only have a very vague recollection of walking through Epcot (which was not at all interesting to a 4 year old), and riding on the Dumbo ride (this may or may not be a memory that I’ve made up due to the fact I’ve seen the picture so many times).

 

Living so close to someone for such a long time, one can’t help but begin to take that person for granted, get too used to them being there, and get somewhat tired of them always being there. As a teenager, these were my feelings. And my grandmother, being the person that she was, became more of a critic and worry wart towards me…always expressing fear over every potential thing that could go wrong, anxiety that this person or that person was a bad influence, uneasiness concerning any broadening of my independence. These concerns were often shared in a rather vocal manner, the kind that only comes from a genuine Southwest Baltimore upbringing.

Still, she always stayed involved. For my 15th birthday she made me a birthday cake with a diorama of a ski slope on it. She never missed a birthday. Sometimes she would be a day or two late, but I guess with six kids, and six grandkids, it gets pretty easy to mix up dates!

Photo ops for homecomings, school dances, and proms (with an entourage of onlookers from the entire block) took place in her backyard. It was always so well maintained and made the perfect backdrop. Flowerbeds were always trimmed. The grass was always green, and the pool, a clear sparkling blue.

When I was 18, she helped me paint and wallpaper my bedroom, and used the opportunity to lecture me about her fear of me “running off and getting hitched” to my high school boyfriend...and all I could think at the time was “good God, this is the most uncomfortable conversation…she’s so not with it.” But I was young, and I didn’t understand how “with it” she actually was.

I often think back to the times when my grandfather was sick. I could’ve and should’ve helped more. I should’ve taken the time…one regret that I didn’t realize I would have in the moment. When my grandfather passed something changed in my grandmother. I remember sitting in her kitchen the morning after his death, looking over at her. Her heart was no longer whole. This unbreakable woman now seemed vulnerable, shaken and broken. She was forever changed.

Over the last few years of her life, I came to know my grandmother better than I ever did over the 21 years that I lived across the street from her. During the work week, I would drive over often for my lunch breaks. I could always hear the television blaring from inside as soon as I opened the car door...A&E...I’m convinced this was the only channel she got. I didn’t mind though. I enjoyed catching old episodes of Law and Order, Crossing Jordan, and Cold Case Files in the middle of my work day. It made it seem not so workish. She claimed that she never paid attention to what was on, and only used the TV to fill the silence of the house; but you could tell she watched a little too many crime dramas because she was always warning about the dangers of everyone and everything “out there.”

The smell of cigarettes was apparent as soon as I opened the door, but it wasn’t the nasty, ick feeling usually associated with them...it was familiar. The coffee pot would always be on, and usually empty. Since it was a coffee pot from circa 1982, it didn’t have an automatic shut off, and was probably one of just 120 other fire hazards in that old house. I usually turned it off; she was none the wiser.

I enjoyed those lunches with her. She always seemed so eager and excited for the company. She would make ham and cheese sandwiches (always imported ham…never pre-packaged), shrimp salad...sometimes, we would order pepperoni pizza, and sometimes, we would venture out to a local restaurant. She loved her cream of crab soup and her crab cakes. She loved to order Reuben sandwiches; and each time she would say “I don’t think I’ve had one of these since Daddy died.” This was what she affectionately called my grandfather ever since I can remember.

I gradually noticed changes in her. Her memory was lapsing more and more. Sometimes she would forget about our lunch dates. Sometimes she wouldn’t be able to recollect when she last saw me. She would tell me the same stories repeatedly during the same conversation. Sometimes she would even complain to me about how long it had been since I’d last been over, even though it was usually just a few days. She often got frustrated at her growing level of confusion.

It was sad to see such a strong-willed, strong-minded woman growing old before my eyes. But it was in these times, that we had some of our best chats ever. The thing about aging that I came to appreciate is that it causes you to reminisce an awful lot. I enjoyed hearing stories about when she was young; things she used to do; people she used to hang with; dating my grandfather; raising my aunts and uncles… all of the things that I never knew about her before then. Things about my family, things about me. Things that I could never learn from anyone else.

One day early last August over a bite of pizza, she very bluntly blurted a peculiar question, “Sher, you pregnant yet?” That’s just how she was. She said exactly what was on her mind. The odd thing was, she had never asked me such a question before. Coincidently, one week later I found out that I was pregnant with my first child.

I knew how excited she would be to hear the news, and thought of ways to share it with her. I decided that I would wait until my first sonogram so that I could take her a picture. Her memory was declining, and I wanted her to be able to have something to keep at the house to remind her.

A week before my sonogram, I had lunch with her one final time. As we sat talking in the sitting room, my cousin Aubrey kept prompting me to tell her about the baby. I held out…I wanted to wait until I could give her the picture.

The morning of my sonogram, I got a call on my cell phone just as I was driving to the appointment. My mom was taking my grandmother to the hospital. She had been having extreme back pain for some time. My mom passed the phone to my grandmother and I talked with her for a moment. “I’m going to the hospital,” she said, “I’m about to kick the bucket.” I can still hear those words, and her voice as she said them, so clearly in my head. I’m not sure if anyone else sensed it at the time, but I remember thinking she knew something we didn’t.

I never got a chance to give her Joseph’s first “photo.” And, even though I told her about him over and over again during the month and half that she spent in the hospital, I really don’t know that she understood what I was telling her. She was in terrible pain, in and out of sleep; getting over one infection, only to fight another. She suffered from a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, spinal issues, and so on. She was intubated, extubated, and intubated repeatedly. The days that lead up to her passing were difficult to say the least. And the decision to finally let her go was probably one of the hardest that my family has ever had to make. I remain convinced that she made the decision, and only wanted us to help her follow through with it. She was tired, lonely, and being called to move on.

The day that she died, everyone spent vigil at the hospital for hours. We watched her heart rate on the monitor slowly decrease and then unexpectedly increase continually in what seemed like an endlessly heart wrenching and never-ending scenario.

I remember “the moment” like it was yesterday. So many people were gathered around her. I was sitting at the foot of her bed; my head was burrowed in her blanket just at her knees. It was a white waffle knit cotton blanket, and smelled of hospital, medications, and detergent. I didn’t look at the heart monitor as I had so many times over the course of the day. I heard it though. The beeping, then the continuous long beep that signaled she was gone. I felt like I didn’t lift my head for several minutes, and when I did, I saw that my mascara had soaked into the blanket.

The days before her funeral were hard...decisions, family bickering, planning, spreading the news. I could say it was all just a blur, but I remember it very clearly.

At her funeral, in lieu of the traditional eulogy, family and friends were invited to speak. I did not. Had I done so, this is what I would have liked to share.

My grandmother was complicated, frustrating, hot tempered, kind, big- hearted, and lived for her family. I didn’t always understand her, but I came to appreciate and value her so much. I found a great friend in her. She taught me things that only someone who has lived them could be able to. She was the thread that kept our family sewn together. Without her, we no longer have the common denominator that will keep us joined. I love her and miss her more than words can express.

I am reminded every day that she is still around us. As I’ve sat here writing this, I have, on occasion, smelled an unexplainable, familiar scent of cigarette smoke, like I have many times over the past year. And just last night, as I searched the medicine cabinet for something before my shower, a white paper hospital visitor pass fell from the top shelf, where I must have placed it a little over a year ago.