2002-10-20

Exploring My Grandmother's Death, and the events afterwards.

My English professor told me that my writing is too superficial. Our assignment was to write a “personal exploratory essay” about some event or subject that had altered or changed our life. We were supposed to ask ourselves questions and find the answers. When she first gave us our assignment, I had no idea what to write about. She gave us examples of past works about challenging stereotypes and important social and ethical issues. I decided that my essay would be important. I would take on a controversial and important subject and change the world. So I chose to write the essay about violence against women in third world countries. The perfect essay for a freshman English class at a liberal Midwest college.

I started to write the essay and found it impossible to explore the subject through the context of my own life. I was a girl who had grown up in a comfortably middle-class home in a small town in Michigan. I had never experienced much violence against anyone, much less a woman. A major crime in my town was smashing mailboxes or other vandalism. Therefore, I changed my topic. I chose to write about my grandmother’s death. She was the first person close to me that had died.

Here is the essay:

How does the death of a loved one affect those left behind?

When I was growing up, I only had one grandmother. My maternal grandmother had passed on before I was born. I always enjoyed my visits to my grandmother’s house in Logansport, Indiana. To me, my grandmother’s house was a place of Bolin’s donuts, carousel rides, miniature golf and the jungle gym at Riverside Park, frozen custard from the Sycamore, full-scale battles with army figurines, the best coloring books, and tea parties on the porch. There was never a dull moment. My grandmother’s house even had the best bathrooms.

My grandmother, Elizabeth Louise (David) Simpson, had been born and raised in Logansport. On a tour through town, she could show you the house where her family had lived. Now at 117 14th Street, she still had her friends over regularly for bridge or other activities. My grandmother and her husband had raised three kids in that house, my father and his two brothers. The house was full of history, not anything the average person would be interested in, but the kind of history that is magical to those who have a personal connection.

I always looked forward to visits to my grandmother’s house. She always met us at the door with a big hug and kiss. We were then immediately ushered into the kitchen to be filled with all sorts of treats that could only be found in that kitchen. As soon as we had settled into our temporary home, we would immediately beg to go down the street two blocks to Riverside Park. Sometimes my dad or grandmother would accompany us; other times it was just us kids. We raced out the door and flew down the two blocks to our version of heaven. For some reason, Riverside Park had the best jungle gym in the world with an abundance of slides and the best drawbridge in the world, which although scary, was a delight to cross. Besides the obvious draw of playground euphoria, Riverside Park held another landmark.

It was the home to the carousel to beat all carousels, at least in my adolescent mind. The trick was to pick an outside animal to ride on, preferably the gazelle or reindeer for their horns. Those appendages made wonderful holders for the rings. The object of the ride was to reach out and grab rings from a dispenser hoping for the illustrious gold ring. The gold ring was the holy grail of my childhood. If you took hold of the gold ring, you automatically received a free ride on the carousel. That gold ring was the source of much joy but also much grief and sorrow. For many years I was too small to reach the ring dispenser, and too stubborn to ask for help from an older cousin or parent. Finally reaching a height at which I could just reach the dispenser, I spent many revolutions just touching the ring, not actually able to fully grasp it and pull. This, however, did not dissuade me from trying.

I remember a particular Saturday when a gift of one dollar and fifty cents, enough money to ride the carousel thrice, was bestowed upon my cousins, siblings, and myself. We hustled down to the park not wanting to waste any time. Our quickness rewarded us a chance to be at the head of the line and thus a chance to pick first which creature we would ride. I of course choose a gazelle, perfect for its long horns. I readied myself upon the steadfast animal; my safety harness was tight, but not too tight as to prevent myself from leaning far enough to reach the ring dispenser. My twin sister, Ann, being smaller than me, could not yet reach the ring dispenser and therefore was offered help by my older cousin, Brian. As she was not as stubborn as I was, she readily accepted. My brother, Tom, cousin, Eric, and myself were faithful with our diligence to obtain that gold ring, but quickly exhausted our money. In disgust and a little sorrow, we made the two-block trek back to my grandmother’s house. The parents all inquired as to where Ann and Brian were, and we angrily (or was it jealously) complained that since they kept grabbing the golden ring, they were still riding the carousel. Are these not the moments life is made of?

This is just one of my favorite memories from my grandmother’s house. I still have many fond memories of holidays and donuts and bike rides left to fill volume after volume of essays. Besides being very loving and fun, my grandmother was also a very caring person. Her next-door neighbor, Jo had for many years been unable to drive herself around because of a vision and mobility problem. Jo, like my grandmother, was a widow and lived alone in her huge home. Therefore, whenever we came to visit my grandmother, we were always given some kind of baked good and sent over to Jo’s to visit.

When I was in middle school, my grandmother, because of deteriorating health, was sent to live in a “retirement community.” For a few years, my grandmother’s health continued to decline, due to Alzheimer’s disease. After a while, she was unable to remember small details and finally even forgot members of her own family. This was frustrating not only for her but for the rest of the family as well. The place where she was living asked my uncle Dave to move her immediately since she could no longer perform the minimal tasks necessary to live there. Therefore, my grandmother was moved to a nursing home in Holland, Illinois, near where my uncle lived.

Early on into my sophomore year of high school, my father phoned and said that my grandmother had gotten sick. Because of a clause in her will, my grandmother was not given medication to fight the illness. Later that week she passed on. The news came in the form of another phone call from my father. Although I had known she was sick, I was appalled by the news. Instead of crying or feeling sad, I was in disbelief. I had an absence of emotions. I was confused because I did not know how I should be feeling. This was the first person close to me who had died. Are there a set of rules to follow, after a death?

The next day I went to school as if it was a normal day. I stepped off the school bus at approximately seven-thirty in the morning and sought out my best friend expecting condolence and support. Instead, I was greeted with an indifference to my news and a report about the actions of some boyfriend. Were her boy problems more important than my suffering? Inside I was appalled and hurt, but I tried to keep up some semblance of the way a high-school sophomore was supposed to act. By lunchtime, I had made up my mind. I could no longer be around that person who had hurt me. I choose that day to sit with a different group of people at lunch. This group included my best friend from elementary who I had barely spoken to in years. I immediately felt welcome and supported by this new group of friends.

Later that week I attended my first and only funeral in my short life. I was unsure of what to expect. When we got to the funeral home, only the family had arrived. We were told where we would sit during the service. We were then left alone to prepare for the service. My father and my cousin, Brian, practiced the song they would play during the service. I wandered over to the posters set up with pictures from my grandmother’s life. We all had to smile when we saw the photos of my cousin goofing off during every family picture. Nevertheless, this was still a very sad time for my family. As I was looking at the pictures, I was approached by a woman who I had never seen before. She asked me if I was related to Betty David. I told her that she was my grandmother. This woman then related to me a story of how her family had very little money when she was small. My grandmother’s family had given her family rides to the grocery store and other places.

The funeral consisted of my uncle Dave and his cousin Jim talking about all the things my grandmother had done during her life. My cousin Brian and my father played Amazing Grace on their guitars. I cried more tears during that time than I had cried in my entire life preceding that event. It was the first time I had cried over my grandmother’s death. After the service, my siblings and I were approached by Jo, my grandmother’s former neighbor who told us how much she had enjoyed living next to my grandmother and how much she had enjoyed our visits over the years.

To this day, even while writing this essay, I still tear up when I think of my grandmother. However, I have to smile when I think of all the positive and fun memories I had with her. I remain friends with those who helped me through this difficult time even though I may not see or speak to them very often. I guess it is like the saying goes, “I always knew I would look back on the times I cried, and laugh, but I never thought I would look back on the times I laughed, and cry.”

I thought I had satisfactorily completed the assignment. However, as my English professor stated, the essay was superficial. I did not explore the subject within myself. Maybe I’ve been reading my psychology book too much, but I think the reason that I don’t explore that topic or other topics is because if I don’t think about it or talk about it, It can’t hurt me. In the years since my grandmother’s death, I have barely spoken about her. Neither has my family. I guess if I keep it all inside, it cannot hurt me or anybody else. The only problem with that is it ends up hurting me more in the end.

I used to be an avid journal writer. I read historical journals from the young adult section and had dreams of grandeur that at some point people would read mine. The only problem was that my problems were simple and typical of middle-schoolers. I was not living in slavery or during a war. I had no drug problems or other social issues. I was a pretty typical suburban student. I had tried cigarettes once or twice. I did not drink alcohol until the summer after my senior year in high school. I had always resisted the “poisons” of adolescence. When things got tough, when my grandmother died, when I felt abandoned by my friends, I stopped writing in my journal. I thought once or twice that I should record the events, for closure, or clarity or posterity. I just looked back at my old journal which is hidden in my underwear drawer (how cheesy is that) and I wrote half a paragraph about my grandmother. My high school years consist of a few “updates” every few months. Random notes about whatever boy I was crushing on or what was going on in my classes. It is all very superficial. Even when I tackle the tough topics like religion and death, it is still superficial. It’s events and not thoughts…people and not feelings.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago my dad and step-mom came to visit me. I showed them around campus and around town. It was a great visit. My dad asked me about my classes and any homework I had. I mentioned the essay although very little was said about it. Because that is how it is in my family. We rarely discuss anything that emotional. Our lives are superficial. Our deepest thoughts and feelings unknown. I love my family and would never want anyone else (well, almost never) as my family, but that is the truth.

After I had completed the essay, I decided to e-mail it to my father so he could read about it. I did not think it would do any harm. After all, it did not go into any detail about anything too specific. A few days later, I received a reply that said:

“Thank you for sending me the essay you wrote. I thought it was fantastic. I knew you were good, but I didn't know how good! I can't respond as deeply as I want to right now. So I will save that for the near future.”

That was not the most important part of the e-mail, so I barely registered it at all. I actually was not expecting any feedback other than that. Nevertheless, another few days later I received another e-mail. This e-mail had me in tears and it has me in tears again as I write this.

I have read your essay several times by now. Sometimes, without knowing it, someone can be so selfish that you don't realize what others are thinking or doing. Although the fact that my mother was your only grandmother was obvious to me, I never really thought about what it meant to you kids. At the memorial ceremony, I was mostly concerned with how I would get through it and I blocked out how you, Tom, and Ann were coping behind me. I'm glad Marsha was there to sit with you. I know I was more alert later [those two words have the same letters], but I don't think I was there to help with your feelings that day. Anyway, your essay was deeply moving for me. I have gained some perspective that I lacked before. And I knew you were a good student, but I'm sorry that I didn't realize you had the abilities to write such an emotionally compelling piece. Keep it up! Social Studies is mostly about how to write and how to interpret events. You are one giant step ahead as far as I am concerned.

Again, another consequence of not exploring things, you do not know how others feel. I was hurt by what he had written. Hurt not because he had neglected us (which are not true) but because he was hurting. Eighty percent of the times when I have felt bad are not because of something that has happened to me, or the way I am feeling but because of something that has happened to someone I lover, or the way that someone I love is feeling. I have experienced this many times and continue to experience it. I was unsure to what to say or write. I talked to my best friend in the world, and she said just to write what I felt. This is the result:

I know I talked to you today, but I didn't really address your e-mail. when I got this message last night, I cried for a long time. even now as i re-read it...it makes me cry. It hurts me to think that you are hurt because you feel like you weren't there for us. it's not like that at all. you were going through a lot too, but you were there for us. i don't know if i should say this, but i've always felt closer to you and like i've had a connection with you. and it just hurts me to think that you were upset. i don't really know what to say so this might not make a whole lot of sense...but my friend jessica just told me to say what i feel. i love you very much and i miss you a lot. i am also glad that marsha was there to sit with us. it really meant a lot to me...more than i can probably ever say. i don't really know what else to say other than to say i love you thank you for every thing you have ever done for me...it has been a lot and again...i can't ever say enough to tell you how i feel.

After the second e-mail from my father, I had cried for a long time. Even days later I was still crying. As I wrote the responding e-mail, I was crying. They were tears of hurt and of sadness. Another few days later, I got another e-mail. This time the e-mail was from my step-mom, Marsha. This is what it said:

Hi Pat, I got home before Mike and just read what you had sent, I hope that is ok. I had read your paper and I was so glad that you had written such a beautiful paper, not only for you but also for your Dad. Our families ,as all are, are different in ways and the same in ways. My kids have been raised mainly by me but also had a Father who was so unlike your Dad. (I am not going to get into all that but it was not pleasant to say the least). However my point is that I always let my children say how they felt, good or bad, and sometimes it hurt me, but they knew they could be honest and also that they could make their own mistakes,(and they both did, some major ones) but however they always have respected that I let them do that and the honesty they and I have always had. The point of all that is, my children and I have always spoken our feelings( because it didn't happen when their Dad was there) one of the first things they and I learned was that we did have feelings and we could share them.

I have always liked you and Ann as people, but never was sure if you did me, until I finally figured out, you both also liked me as a person, but that sometimes you two and I were in some kind of game or power thing, and your Dad knew that was how I felt because I kept saying "What do Pat and Ann think or how do they feel?" And "what do Pat and Ann want to do?" instead of descions being made for you. I think Mike has always wanted to say things that are hard for him, he feels that some how he failed even though( and you will understand this as you grow older even more) it takes two people to marry, and two to divorce. I love your Dad with all my heart, he has always totally accepted me as who I am and has never tried to change me. I have also told him from the first that , you and Ann and Tom do not "feel like he failed", well maybe Tom does but I do not know him. But that you and Ann ,no, you both love him for who he is and how he is. When you sent him the card on Veterans Day he cried. He has always felt an even stronger closeness to you( you must remind him of himself) and he has always been proud of you and Ann.

Your paper showed him (again) that you do also love him very much, that you do not feel like he"is a failure" and I am soooooo glad you sent it for both of us to read.

You all were very blessed, or lucky , to have a beautiful person like your Grandmother, I wish I had known her and she had known me. Logansport will always be a wonderful memory for you, that you , in your own time, will give that kind of thing to your children.

When your Dad reads what you have written he will cry again but tears of happiness, because I as relearned this summer, life is short and when some one you loved so closely is gone, there are no more chances to say"I love you".

I held my brother in my arms when he passed away, he had always been the brother I took care of , due to my wacky family, and was the one I was closest to. I will always have an empty place in my heart, just as you do for your Grandmother, and no one will fill that space up, but somehow as you grow and love more people, your heart grows too.

I hope some of this makes sense. I mainly wanted you to know your Father has always loved you very much, and always will.

I cried again. However, this time they were tears of happiness. I do not know why, considering the subject of the e-mail. I guess it just feels good to be loved and to love someone back. I still have not written back to Marsha, but I am planning on it. However, not in an e-mail. In a card, something that she can hold in her hands and read anytime she wants. My dad also sent another e-mail:

I really appreciated your message from last night. I love you very much. I didn't mean that I was upset with myself about Mom's funeral, just that I didn't realize some of the other things happening around me. Your essay woke me up and I felt both proud and sad about what you wrote. When I talked to Don, I told him the same thing I told you. He said no one there was more out of touch with anyone than he was, which was quite true. I am proud of our relationship over the past years. You were the first one I told about Marsha, and I think you were the first one of the three to embrace her as part of our family. I'm glad she was there at the funeral as she was able to do part of what I couldn't do. Anyway, I didn't mean to cause a stir; I just wanted to let you know that your thoughts went deep into my own and I wanted to share my love with you. I know I will keep visiting Kent while you are there and I know you will share your wishes and dreams with me.

I once again cried tears of happiness. I guess these were again tears of happiness to feel loved and to love someone with all your heart. They were also tears of happiness of knowledge that a wonderful future and a wonderful relationship lies ahead of me.

I learned a lot from this experience. I learned that it may hurt to explore your feelings but in the end it is worth it. I learned that there is never enough love to go around. And most of all, I learned that it doesn’t hurt to show or tell someone that you love them. Don’t be afraid. If you do not give, you will never get anything either. I’m going to write a letter to my step-mom now. To thank her and to tell her I love her.

zappagrrl at 11:38 p.m.

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