The Sunroom

And I am on the verge of crying over everything – the slightest amount of true feelings, and I burst into tears. This has been incredibly embarrassing at Union exec meetings and in front of neighbors while looking at my nephew’s Halloween photos (he made the most gorgeous Lady Gaga). If I even dare to think about sharing stories of loved ones… well, I suppose I am doing them such a disservice, but I am horribly afraid of the breakdown.

As ever, I am struggling to settle in and let loose emotions – I wonder if that is why my neck feels as if it will break at any moment. Every small turn or twist causes muscle wrenching and grinding of tissues. And I still cannot seem to relax – not with stretches, or muscle relaxers, or hot compresses or showers. My shoulders are still held tightly in the air, as if chained to my ears.

Perhaps I should have officially set up an altar for them, but as a lover of history and a collector of things, I already have so many items from photos to personal items from my beloveds tucked all over our home. Which means, if I choose to not set up a space to recognize them, I do absolutely need to put some of our stories into words. It has been too long.

First, let me light a candle.

There are some times, like around Samhain, when we are told the veil is thin and our loved ones may be closer than ever. I am a believer that our loved ones are always guides, whether we know them or not, and perhaps the form we find most comforting – the form we knew them in, is how we will always see them, but perhaps is not how they are any longer. Maybe during this time they also try to be as they once were so we feel closer to them and recognize them more readily.

I know this past week, my Aloysius Squeakerins (oft’ referred to as Alley) has been on the very tip of my tongue. I have called Castle, our 10 year old Tuxedo, Alley several times over the past few days even though Alley hasn’t been Earth side since the early 00s. And bless my overly fragile burden of a heart, I’ve also teared up thinking about how much I miss that Squeaker.

The candle is lit. So let’s take a deep, fortifying breath and delve into the briefest of story times.

Grandma Jinny: A true Conservationist – she would pull over for onions dropped along the side of the road – which are incredibly prevelant in our neck of the woods – and to this day, I have the urge to stop, even on now busy thoroughfares to rescue those onions. She would pick up garbage on the side of the road, especially aluminum cans, to turn into the recycling center. She brought her own food containers to restaurants so she could take home leftovers – usually for her dogs. In my lifetime she was never married (after several divorces she seemed to realize she absolutely did not need a man). She loved camping, and took me with her frequently – I can recall wading into cool mountain creeks and occasionally showering with her “new fangled” sunsoaker – which was a plastic bag with a spigot that you’d lay in the sun to warm up and then hang in a tree branch to bathe under. She had a television dish and used special codes to steal channels. My love, and ability, to watch and rewatch (to an unhealthy amount) movies came from her (likely, a bit of both nurture and nature). She was an alcoholic and had a tenuous relationship with my mom. She seemed to delight, at times, in traumatizing us. She simply didn’t seem to be able to help herself. She also loved us fiercely – and once put down one of her lovely dogs that bit me in the face all because I did the thing she told me not to and hugged him. I don’t even remember her being mad at me, but I also don’t remember a whole lot from that incident (just my parents coming home and seeing my face – not the drive to or the time at hospital or back). She did not give a fuck what people thought about her, and always seemed, to me, incredibly authentic in her actions. I’m grateful for that example.

Grandma Lea: My mom’s step-mother and my namesake – I think mostly as an eff you to both her mom (Jinny) and her mother-in-law (Ellie). Her first name was Hazel, which she hated. She had been a hairdresser and always loved pulling my hair off and away from my face. Which I find touching, now, because it was to tell me how beautiful I was and to not hide my face – only now do I realize how much that meant, because I have to tell you I won the hair lottery and it has always been (and continues to be) much talked about and envied. How very wonderful for her to want to tuck that away and showcase my face (I’m not the “looker” of my siblings). She played the organ – so beautifully – and it was always so delightful have her turn that glowing red power button on and let us play with oh so many keys. She was so active and lived long after my Grandpa passed. She did her step aerobics (for decades), played cards with the girls, and also had the teeniest poodle. She lived until she was 98.

Grandma Ellie: Of all my family, we have always been what I believe to be the closest. Tied together by something more than blood. Perhaps it is because I was her first grandchild (born of her favourite child). Or because as I grew I reminded her of her mother. While I often fear that I am not loved unconditionally, there was never any doubt with her. I can still feel her hold me close and whisper, “you’re my girl,” into my ear before we would drive away (we moved states away when I was very young, but visited every Christmas). She, too, was a force to be reckoned with. And for her many failings as a parent, she was an amazing grandparent. Things that told me how much she loved me, were things like saying, “it won’t get less wrinkled with wearing” when I was embarrased something I wanted to wear wasn’t ironed – she was fastidious about everything. I’m sure she ironed their underwear. She was a fixture in her church and sang in the choir. She loved reading, as did I, and so we spent many hours in the library or used bookstores. And because she always had many pills to take – some at 11 pm at night, we always stayed up late reading. She died too young – in her 70s, because we are BRCA2+ and the ovarian cancer had moved into her lungs before they found it. I’m grateful she got to meet my daughter. Devastated she never got to meet my wife.

Grandpa Roger: What a kick – my mom’s dad. Born and raised in Boston, MA – good ol’ Black Irish. That accent. Oh, how comforting I find it. He loved Cribbage and we played as soon as I was old enough. I Shot the Moon once while playing him. It was glorious. He was patient, we spent a lot of time on his back patio – likely because he was a heavy smoker. We played cook for hours – I would make steak out of the bricks of bark and steep bougainvillea wine (hose water turned a lovely shade of pink). He was blind in one eye due to a terrible snowball fight accident (a rock in the snowball) and, therefore, the family tale and excuse as to why we were not allowed to throw snowballs. I was a teenager when he passed away. We had traveled as fast as we could (and as fast as we could afford) to his beside – states away. He was in a coma for days, but I was standing with him when he opened his eyes and I was able to tell him how much I loved him and not to worry, that mom and Grandma Lea were there and would be back soon. I don’t know if he understood, but I’m grateful I had the opportunity. That was the last time his eyes opened before he passed soon after.

Papa Don: So handsome and funny. He passed away this summer and it still doesn’t seem real. How could someone who had been in my life so long be gone? I’m 45. I’m incredibly overwhelmed with gratitude that I had a grandparent with me for so long (especially because my father, his son, and I stopped speaking over a decade ago). Papa was the only non-immediate family member to come to my wedding. While I know I did not do enough, I was able to travel to help care for him in the last year of his life – when things got incredibly hard and he wasn’t as independent as he was used to and so scared. We were able to have open conversations about fear, death, and love. We learned a lot of about each other. I am so lucky to have been able to care for him and, in a way, repay all the love and care he had shown me. A favourite story was when my grandma first met grandpa – she, of course, thought he was probably full of shit and thought he was hot stuff. Of course, he was incredibly handsome and she was a looker, too; so they did end up dancing that first evening they saw each other, inspite of grandma’s protestations he was too haughty. She had already left a terrible marriage – her first husband abused her – and she had a very young baby (my father). Well, Papa fell in love and took on a whole family. Thank god. Papa was always pretty much the best of us.

Well, I did it. I got through a handful of loved ones and I am, as predicted, a blubbering wreck. We miss you so very much and think of you often.