I talked to my grandmother on the phone. I hate to say it was the first time I’ve heard her voice in nearly a year, and the only thing I could really hear was an unnerving tinge of fragility. She said, “I just don’t feel bright…it just kinda makes you wonder” when talking about what’s really going to happen (in the greater scope of things). But my memories of her are always that of brightness and optimism…she told me she has three years left to live, a year ago.
That statement alone cut deep. It cut into my core.
My grandma has been a major player in the architecture of the essence of my being: she’s been there to unconditionally support every one of my arrogant ups and disparaging downs. She kept my ass in line when I was a young, rebellious brat and cherished every memory of my adolescence; all the way up until I reached the frayed ends of my rope as a 19-year-old on the verge of becoming homeless, she took me in without a second thought. And even when I was struggling to stay afloat to readjust to my own culture rehabilitation after coming back from my Navy ‘adventures’, she was there.
No matter what I went through or what I did, she never asked any questions and yet always seemed to understand exactly what I was going through. I knew I could always confide in her without fear of repercussion, and that in itself is invaluable in such a judgmental world as is this. Fuck, I could only aspire to be like that.
As the conversation drove on, she noted the dissatisfaction in my voice. I guess I wasn’t as good at lying as I thought I was, because in all honesty, I was only trying to sound cheerful on her behalf. I just wanted to hear the older version—the one I grew up with that didn’t have this fear that’s been rearing its ugly head as of late. Thinking about it caused memories of Spring blossoms and a warm, comfortable breeze to arise in the back of my mind. She has always taken pride in the beauty of her garden that wrapped around her house in the tranquil woods.
In the scope of things, it’s horrible of me to be blatantly dishonest about my feelings because it’s the same as lying. So, I spilled my stinking guts. We covered topics of discussion that I hadn’t really prepared to talk about, but I pissed it all out as she listened like a Catholic priest in a confession booth. I felt so sick with myself. The pit of my chest sank into my unending urge to totally lose composure and burst into tears. I was beyond disgusted with myself. But if I did cry, would it really matter? I was alone anyhow. It feels as if my wheels are losing their grip on the tracks. I just wanted her arm to extend through the phone and deliver that comforting hug I’ve been deprived of for far too long, but it didn’t happen. So, I kept going.
Aside from my insignificant wants, I sincerely wanted to know how things were on her end. As she continued, her shaky voice further lost its familiar comfort. She reassured me that the family was getting along without her, but that just sickened me further. Images of the past flashed through my mind. My cousin, Dusty Lynn, lost her first husband and went through a lot of hard times since but was now getting along just fine. Her kids, with whom grandma used to be very close, were starting down their own paths. I couldn't help but feel happy for them for moving on, yet, it pissed me off.
It’s strange how the shape of a family breaks apart and reforms within a single lifetime. My grandmother was the foundation—the glue. We gathered frequently, talked often, and loved lots, but it fell apart as the old got older and the younger grew up. Is it supposed to happen that way? Or is it just a generational shift in values? Now, the family barbeques are almost nonexistent, Thanksgivings might be a five-minute visit, and phone calls are namely for special occasions or inquiries. I often wonder what the shape of my family looks like now. Is it recognizable? Or is it me that unrecognizable? Maybe I’ve changed to the point I didn’t really know what shape my family really was to begin with, or was there never really a set shape?
The most concrete conclusion I’ve been able to come to so far is no, there is no set shape, and that doesn’t just apply to families, it applies to everything. Everything is fluid. Nothing is guaranteed other than the definite end. That very thought scares the shit out of a lot of people (and I apologize if you’re shitting yourself now). As for me, I’m at a place in which I am coping with said fear and learning to appreciate the simplicity in the beauty of everything that surrounds me at this very moment.
On the other hand, it’s quite astonishing how much we actually do have control over. The barriers we set are just that: what we set. And that coincides perfectly with something my grandmother said during our conversation:
“If nothing changes, nothing changes. If you’re unhappy with the situation and you do nothing about it, it remains.”
-Skye Kühr
(And to end on a lighter note, +10 points to anyone who gets the reference in this blog title).