Tuesday, May 2nd at 3:30 in the morning my phone started to ring.
I didn't make it to one of our cordless phones to read the caller ID
in enough time so I sat halfway down the steps as the answering machine
picked up and started to record:
"It's Bob. Ginny Lou passed away this evening. Give me a call
when you get a chance."
I had a strange feeling in my chest as I pressed it to my knees. Ginny
Lou was my grandmother's name. I don't know how I was supposed to feel.
I was relieved. I was scared of what I was going to have to confront
to help my grandfather. I was sad because I wasn't sad at all. My grandparents
lived less than 15 miles away from me. Before May 2nd, it had been 10
years since I had seen my grandmother. It was even longer since I talked
to her.
My grandmother had Alzheimer's disease. For more than 10 years she
had 24 hour in-home nursing care. She couldn't speak or walk. As the
oldest grandchild, I'm the only one who has some vague memories of her
when she was still a little bit of herself. Every other memory is from
when she started to become too ill to function.
It was her speech that went first. At first she would forget what
she was saying mid-sentence. Then her speech pattern became saying "For
goodness sakes!" over and over and referring to every male as "Bob." After
that was muttering, then silence. Mobility came after that and her eyes
dulled. There was no light or life in them once she was this shell.
Her heart pumped blood through those unmoving limbs and her bodily functions
kept on.
She ended up in a nursing home once for three weeks. She was walking
and lost function of her legs and fell into a lamp, cutting open a gash
in the side of her head. I visited her once. I went to tour another
nursing home too. It was sad. There were people in the hallway in wheelchairs
and beds, most unmoving, but living. There was no family there for them.
My grandfather loved my grandmother too much to leave her alone in
that sad place. He moved from the home that he had lived in for more
than 35 years into the guest house next door so that my grandmother
could stay in her own home with her nurses. Tens of thousands of dollars
was spent per year so that she could live on in a place of comfort.
Where everyone knew where she was.
This is what I know about my grandmother. I knew her when she was
sick. I didn't know her at all. My memories are not of a loved one,
just an ill person. There was and is no way to change that. The person
that my grandfather and my father and aunt loved was gone long before
I was old enough to really remember.
I've learned the most about my grandmother from my mother. She was
the one who told me about how she was the first to point out to my father
and grandfather that there might be something wrong. She had seen my
grandmother talking to herself to help herself remember what she was
doing and supposed to do. When she addressed her concerns she was shunned.
Everyone was upset at her for suggesting that there might be something
wrong. Years later my grandfather apologized to my mother for behaving
that way. She's told me about when my grandmother had a face lift and
was upset at her for staying in bed when she was pregnant with my sister
and had a severe case of the flu instead of being at her bedside helping
to change surgery bandages.
The portrait I've come to know of Virginia Lou Kempe is of someone
selfish and shallow. Someone who cared more about the way her home and
body looked than the type of person she was.
The day after the phone call I went in to help my grandfather. I showed
up at the office he and I work at together and found the door locked.
He was working out of his home office, next door to the house where
my grandmother had died in less than twelve hours before. I knew what
else was in that house waiting for me and I was terrified.
It was the first time that I wasn't going to the house to drop off
something from my grandfather to one of the nurses. I turned down the
street to see four cars in the driveway and the back of the thing that
I dreaded most. I couldn't bring myself to turn into the driveway so
I circled the street. I made it to the dead end and held my breath as
I made my turn back. The car was parked and the noise of the car caught
the attention of those in the house and there was no turning back.
Someone called my name and a young kid ran up to me and put his arms
around me and it was the only time I had to hold back tears. I was embracing
my brother who had grown 7 years and nearly two feet since the last
time he and I occupied the same space. It's not fair to him or to me
that I didn't keep in touch with a child. Tears were swallowed back
and I let go and continued to the stoop. My feet were weighted as I
turned and looked at my father, standing against the rail. He was bloated
and grayed and his eyes were puffed from tears. Time froze and so did
I.
The last time I had even seen that man it was on the day of my high
school graduation. We had fought before I had even arrived at the ceremony.
He confronted my sister outside and they yelled and screamed at one
another. She called him an "asshole" and he called her a "little
bitch." She ended up inside with my mother crying and he never
apologized to her afterwards. I never spoke to him after that and he
made no effort to contact me or her.
It was terrible to see this man standing in front of me. I had always
pictured the day that I saw him again that I would end up in tears screaming
and crying at him. I wanted to come out and tell him that he ruined
my life. I wanted to let him know the awful things he did to me and
my family. But I didn't. He stared at me wearily and I wrapped my arms
around him and hugged him. He cried into my shoulder as I held onto
him for longer than I wanted to but because it was the right thing to
do.
I spent the day helping out with arrangements and playing cards with
my little brother. My aunt was flown in from Boulder. My grandfather
stayed secluded in the guest house as my father and aunt and their cousin
buzzed around, worrying about music that was going to be played at the
service and what they were going to do with the honey baked ham in the
refrigerator. My aunt seemed to be the only one who was outwardly upset.
I felt strange being in the home where a relative had just died the
day previous and no one seemed to be mourning. My brother and I weren't
crying, but we didn't have anything about my grandmother to miss.
That Friday was the memorial service. My mother and sister came along
with me and we sat in the padded pews listening to a reverend read passages
of the bible. My father and aunt's cousin went first. She fondly talked
about being made to clean the house during the day and wear curlers
as she and my aunt slept. My father went next and talked about being
dragged to antique sales and nearly broke down into tears. My aunt went
last and nearly broke down as well. Several people went up and spoke
about what a classy woman my grandmother was and the impression she
had made on them. I sat there with my sister and brother because we
had nothing to say. I didn't have fond memories to share about her coming
to a dinner party I was at and impressing people, nor did I have anything
to say about her love of poetry.
I am at an age where I am changing into the person that I am going
to be for the rest of my life. I'm still learning things about myself
that even I didn't know. Until this month I didn't know that I had it
in me to be a kind person and push aside past differences to give my
father a hug when he needed it, even if he didn't deserve it from me.
I wonder if I'm going to be the type of person who stays in debt for
the rest of my life or the person who pays their bills on time.
I've been so stressed lately that I've had anxiety attacks. I hate
to admit that. It's something that gives me trouble from time to time
and it's terrible. It makes me feel weak and helpless. I've had to worry
and stress about being around my father, about what I'm going to do
for school next semester, about helping my boyfriend move, about money,
about training. About everything. I feel sometimes like I'm starting
to change and I can't help the way it's going. I want to be a good person
and an honest writer and it's so hard for me sometimes. I'm holding
on and struggling to be what I want and not let myself become what I
hate. It's tough, but I'm trying.
It's hard to understand things you don't know. It's frustrating almost.
There are some things that I've always assumed are something I should
understand. I feel like I should understand and know my family, but
I don't. I may never know why my father did the things to me that he
did or why my aunt left everything behind to move to Colorado. Not understanding
is part of the sadness that I've felt this month. Maybe it's not even
sadness. Maybe it's all frustration.
I've thought before it happened how much I was going to dread the
death of my grandmother. I always knew it was coming, just not when.
And I feel selfish for the dread I had. I was worried about the confrontations
I'd have to make and the people I'd have to see and talk to rather than
the sorrow that people might be feeling. I want to be a good person,
but I don't know how I'm going to be that when I have thoughts like
this. I should be sad over the death of family. I shouldn't be worrying
about the things I would have to deal with. I wonder if now that I've
been honest about my feelings if people are going to think of me as
selfish and shallow when I die.
I feel badly about viewing my grandmother so negatively. There were
many people that seemed to care about her. I may not think that having
a large, well-decorated house in a wealthy neighborhood is important,
but to some people it is. Being made to wear curlers to bed and wearing
makeup and dresses would not be a fond memory of mine, but remembering
it once my grandmother was gone made my aunt cry.
After this month my focus on things has changed. I want to learn more
about who I am. There is no way for me to learn about someone else if
I don't know enough about myself. I want to keep trying to be a good
person. I want to finish school, even though I'm having a hard time
focusing, and get a real job. I want to keep working hard to keep my
body in good condition and keep training, even if there are parts that
I have had difficulty with. And maybe if I keep trying hard I can be
the person I want.
Decades from now, when I die, I don't want to have my family sit around
and wonder what they have to mourn. I would never want them to be sad,
but if I'm gone, I want them to know why they miss me. And even if something
happens to me where I can't communicate with my grandchildren, I want
the things that I've taught my children to pass onto them. Even if I
can't let them know who I am, someone else can help them learn.
I will never be able to know my grandmother. I don't know if anyone
will ever sit down and explain to me what she was like. My impression
of her has changed a little, knowing how much some people loved her,
but I still have a lot to learn if there is ever someone willing to
teach me. There are a lot of things that I may never learn about my
family, it seems.
I'm trying hard to understand. Maybe that's good enough for now.
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