I’m Glad You’re Here

 

In the summer before high school, I planned to do a lot of nothing: sunbathing, which didn’t suit my milk colored skin, perhaps I’d play some Nintendo or I’d ride Kim’s horses. Phyllis might take us to the mall to Suncoast to buy a new CD. 

I had plans. Most of them involved being 14. 

I remember getting a call while staying at Kim’s, that my grandma, my dad’s mom was sick and we needed to go to the hospital, because she wasn’t doing well. 

As was customary when Grandma Georgia had an illness, she tended to dramatically announce to my dad, “I’ll probably die.” My dad had said, she’s said it more than once.

This time was different. She had congestive heart failure. Her heart was tired and battered from raising all those kids on her own. Her husband, my grandpa, had died when my dad was just a little boy, leaving her alone with 2 handfuls of children. My dad remembers him leaving on a gurney saying, “Steven, take care of your mom for me.”

Nothing short of dramatic, these two. 

When we would make the drive to the farm in Mound or in her later years to her updated split entry, I remember her bright tops, tiny poodle Teddy and her ability to make me feel like I was the only kid in the room, even when it was overflowing with her grand kids. 

One time in the early 1990’s, my dad was starting his used car business. For some ridiculous reason, we drove all the way to southern MN to pick up a truck. I loved riding with my dad, even into my teen years. This time in particular we stopped at my grandmas. She was shocked to see us. The first thing out of her mouth “Where are Cyndee and the other kids?!”

My dad, forever the smart aleck quipped, “She’s divorcing me. The only kid that wanted to come live with me was Melissa.”

My grandmas eyes went dark. I’m pretty sure she was winding up to smack him. Realizing, in her Catholicism, that divorce was no joke, he quickly recanted his former declaration. Praise God. I think he was about to meet his maker. 

On that very same visit, she was baking. The cookies had both white and chocolate chips in them. Whenever I smell chocolate chip cookies baking, I think of her. She was wearing her signature smock type apron with 2 front pockets. I coveted that apron style, and she made me my very own. I insisted on getting her recipe, which I have to this day. 

That day at Kim’s before I started high school I was footloose and fancy free. We dreamt of cute boys. We were awkward. We were gangly. We had big plans which amounted to a whole lot of nothing. 

Before any of that could happen, I was picked up and we headed directly to a hospital I don’t remember, in a town I can’t possibly recall. 

My grandma laid in her bed. Upright in a sitting position, or at least that’s what I remember. I think she was conscious for some of our time, but again, it’s been so long, I can’t be certain. I think she spoke, but I have no recollection of what she said. 

I remember being at the hospital for what seemed like days. There was a tiny phone booth with a little tan countertop inside. I got some change from my dad—maybe my moms purse—and I called Kim. Our conversation was awkward. What do you say to your friend whose grandma is dying? What do you say to your friend when your grandma is dying? I needed that phone call leaned over a tiny tan Formica countertop, pointy elbows and angular knees folded up. Not much was said of particular importance, but I needed to hear her voice anyhow.

I can see the hallway. 

I can see her room, seemingly southern facing. I remember waiting for my aunt and uncle to arrive from Florida. The uncertainty of their arrival hanging in the air. 

“…might not make it before she…”

They make it. Everyone tells her it’s time to let go, go home. We’re all around her bed. The machines are going crazy. Beep, beep, beep…BP BP BP faster now. Then bbbbeeeeeeeppppp. The nurse adjusts something. Regular. Then a repeat. Then again, a rising crescendo of medical nonsense. My brain wants to scream, “let her go!!!”. My mouth remains silent.

The nurse does her checks. Her mouth as flat as the line on the machine. 

She is gone. The flat beeeeepppp continues for what seems like eternity. Then silence and weeping 

In that moment, when my dad openly wept the loss of his mother, teenage me realized my father is a son. He is human. He too, will grieve this tremendous loss, and it will be different than my grief. In that moment, me feeling so very teenagery with all these new revelations—more than ever before—my dad looked directly at me and said “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

In that moment, so was I.