Reflections

I've been wanting to write this all day, a tribute to my Gram. Now, though, my heart is even heavier.

My beloved Gram died on Friday, September 11, 2009 (as if I needed another reason not to be crazy about that date). We weren't close necessarily, but she was my last grandparent here on earth. My paternal grandfather died before I was born, and my paternal grandmother died in our home when I was eight. My maternal grandfather, whom I met only once in my life (I think I may have been either eight or ten), died when I was a teenager. There also was Gram's second husband, who died shortly before my tenth birthday.

I adored Gram, but she wasn't really adorable. Politically correct she was not. The last time we spoke, she told me in no uncertain terms why she didn't like a black man in the White House and her views on race in general. She treated my mother cruelly her entire life, and offered my beleaguered aunt, who spent the last several years caring for her as well as her own sick husband, not so much as even a thank you.

However, she had a charm about her to most people. She was a waitress for many, many years, and had clientele who specifically would go to a restaurant if she worked there. At one point, she owned three mink coats. Going to her house was like winning the lottery -- she'd start cleaning out cupboards full of barely used items and give them to you. My husband and I were in hysterics as we sat behind her on a boat tour, as she gave a running commentary about our guide. My mom and aunt fell down laughing at her fear of a deer at a petting park.

She was little over 5 feet tall, small and petite...but boy, she was a powerhouse. She was the youngest of 13, a scrapper who was watched over by her older siblings. She was a firebrand who, as the story goes, went down to the local tavern and dragged the local hussy who had been talking to her philandering husband out into the street by her hair. I remember hanging on for dear life as a child, accompanying her and my mother into Chicago, her driving my uncle's El Camino at a high rate of speed (in the days where it was acceptable for a child to ride in a car sitting on one-half inch of seat), cigarette ashes being flicked out the window. She smoked like a chimney.

It was ultimately those damn cigarettes that took her life (my family could be poster children for the American Lung Association). A smoker since the age of 13, she quit when they told her that her lung cancer was terminal. I wanted her to so meet my children. Damn economy didn't afford us that chance. Now, we at least had a chance to say goodbye.

Until...

My mom called me earlier this evening to tell me the arrangements had been made, and that she was no longer going. Why? My dad's sick. He's being bull-headed and won't go to the hospital, but he's shaking like a leaf and cannot hold himself up. His COPD seems to be flaring up quite a lot, causing him not to be able to breathe.

This means that I cannot go to my Gram's funeral. I can't be four hours away if he takes a turn for the worse. I need to be here. My mom needs me here.

My heart hurts so much right now. It seems like when it rains, it pours.