Grandma Blur

The past two months have been a blur. I have been better at keeping my head above water, and the grief is no longer as painful as it was.

after running the grandma 50k. grandma is wearing her beloved cahsmere sweater with a silk blouse underneath.

When my grandma was ill, I felt sick with worry. I called and texted my mom, who was with her in the hospital. No one realized it was as serious as it was; I think the one the most stunned was my father. He last saw her a month and a half before she died; he had dropped her off at the grocery store and she walked around and did her shopping by herself. Fast forward to the day she died - Dad arrived 20 minutes before she died, straight from the airport. She looked so terrible (She fell apart a lot in the last few weeks, and from Friday afternoon to Sunday morning was such a massive difference that I cried when I first saw her.) that my dad must have been in shock. I still don't know if he has processed it. 

Then grandma passed away. I spent my time crying. I rode the bike for hours. I listened to the same song on repeat for even more hours. I cried. I refused help from my friends, only finding solace with family. Poor Wayne had to deal with my mess. Nothing felt right. Nothing made sense. I hated everything. I felt horrendous.

I went back to work, and while my job is fairly good with giving us a week bereavement for a grandparent, I thought, "We should get a month." I was that much of a wreck after returning. Perhaps I could have asked for more time, but at the same time, it probably was good that I was "returning to normal." My coworkers understood my mind and I hid out, working at home in pajamas and crying.

Mexico was truly healing, and brought me back to a very different place. I talked a lot about my grandmother because she was so top of mind. I decided after Mexico, I'd run with her rosary beads in every single race - until Burning Man. And then I'll leave them in The Temple after the ultra, so they can become part of the universe, part of the playa, part of me forever.

I thought something was truly wrong with me; my sister and father and mother and cousins seemed fine. Instead, I was bawling on my runs and in the gym and during yoga class; I cried on the subway and in the shower. I sold my tickets to parties and concerts and thought about how my grandmother would never have my cookies again, and wondered what she looked like in the casket now, and it was so cold out and I hated that she was gone gone gone gone gone.

But everyone's different. I realize part of it is that I had the closest best relationship with her. My grandmother adored my father, but they had a very complicated relationship - and my grandma had a similar difficult relationship with my uncle. She was not appreciative of all that my mother and aunt did for her. My other siblings/cousins did not talk to her as much as I did. Family was everything; she pushed aside other things. 

I would visit her whenever I could. In summers, I'd bike to the beach and then bike up to her house. I'd run to her house in what I dubbed the "Grandma 50k" (because I ran the long 50k way there). I would call her once or twice a week. I'd send her little notes every week or so - and inexplicably, I found a few of these unopened in her house.

Her life was sad at the end - very alone, not much passion for things. It is a little scary.

I've had trouble keeping it together. I've been writing articles and running and going to work and doing my laundry and plucking my eyebrows and all that. But on the inside, I felt very shaky.

It's spring now. New things. Biking weather has begun, and I took my heavy blankets off the bed. My grandma always loved spring; I'd get her nice plants every year on Mother's Day. She loved them.

So even though she's gone, I must let my heart fill with joy again. I'm going to get a plant - the purple little flowers she liked - for my fire escape. I'm going to bake her strawberry shortcake for Wayne's birthday, maybe. I won't ever forget her, and even though my heart is still heavy, I have so much joy knowing how much she gave me.

Goodbye, Grandma

My Grandma Ann died today. She was 93.

Grandma has always been a bit sickly, and also a bit of a hypochondriac. Sometimes it was difficult to see what was what, and to get the truth of the situation. She had a rocky relationship with her two sons, and wasn't always the kindest to my mother, but we got along well. I always sent her notes and letters and postcards, would bring her pastries whenever I stopped by, called her a few times a week. As she grew older, her hearing became more and more terrible, and we couldn't talk on the phone quite as much.

This story begins back in December, the story I'm about to share about the end of her life.

our last photo together

I invited my parents to come over to dinner - Wayne and I would make manicotti, garlic bread, veggies, some cranberry cake. We had some wine. I asked them to bring my grandparents. It could be stressful when my grandma came, because she struggled with my stairs, she complained it was such a long drive (30-60 minutes, depending upon traffic), and she drove my father crazy at times. She came. We had a nice time, and Grandma missed a lot of the conversation. She seemed to enjoy the food (She's Italian, so she appreciated the manicotti.) and seemed like she had a nice night. She really struggled going up the stairs, and I had a feeling it would be the last time she would be coming over. I noticed how she struggled when she got up to the furniture, grabbing onto pieces of furniture, using her walker. I said to Wayne, "She's gotten a lot worse."

I called my mother about our plans that Friday, and said I wanted to incorporate a visit to grandma's. She said okay. The morning of, while I was working at home, I received a text that she fell but seemed okay and that my mom was going to take her to the doctor. I was worried. When I arrived, my mom and my grandma were in the car at the train station. Grandma seemed very out of it and was not holding a conversation very well. She had a bandage.

We got to my grandma's house. I was shocked at the amount of blood EVERYWHERE. All of the living room floor, kitchen floor, paper towels in the sink covered with blood, in the bathroom. I couldn't believe it. My grandma's hands shook a lot, so I could see why there was such a huge mess. I was shaking and seeing how fragile my grandma was, I felt ill. She kept trying to get me to eat, and I couldn't. I felt like I was going to throw up.

I made my grandma a grilled cheese sandwich. I kind of burnt it, and grandma pronounced it delicious anyway. I had brought over some of my chocolate mint brownies, and she ate them, saying how good they were. Considering how picky she is, and how good of a baker she is, I was grateful for the compliment.

My mom cleaned up. I tried to cheer my grandma up.

After my mom and I left, I went back to my mom's house nearly in tears. My mom made me a grilled cheese sandwich, same as what I had made my grandma. I tried to explain that I couldn't eat there. All the blood....

My grandma spent that night at my mom's house. My parents spent Christmas with her (I was in the Galapagos.). I was worried about my grandma. I didn't call her because I had terrible internet connections all over Ecuador. When I got back, after hibernating for a day, I took a car2go and went out to visit my grandma. She was pleased I was visiting her, asked about the car. I brought her pastries from the best bakery, Fortunato Brothers. She loved the pastries. We ate the dough bows and creamy pastries with flaky crusts. She offered to get me tea; I told her I was okay. She told me she fell again that morning, even with her new part-time aide there. She was scared of falling. I gave her a magnet from Ecuador - she loved the magnets I brought her.

I left after two hours, because I paid for the car by the hour and I didn't want to get home too late. She was glad I came, and gave me money to take Wayne out to lunch (as she said) and kissed me and told me she loved me.

Two weeks later, she went into the hospital. She wasn't eating, and she felt weak and tired. It seemed like a bit of hypochrondria with how she was talking ("I must have tumors because I fell.") but my mom took her to the hospital. They tested her and my mom and I talked about how she wanted her to go to rehab before anything else. After a day in the hospital, my grandma began begging to go home, asked the nurse to call her a cab, asked my dad to take her home, called her friends to pick her up. She got mad and nasty at people.

I heard about it and wanted to go. "Don't. She'll yell at you. She's not right."

My mom left on Thursday, to go visit my sister. I decided I would go visit her on Friday. She was awful. I mean, I've never seen her looking quite so terribly. Her skin had some weird dark marks, and the skin in her face was puffy and saggy in a way it had never been. She was slurring her speech. She said she wanted to die. She said no one should have to live like that. She said that no one loved her, that no one cared about her, except me. I told her that wasn't true, that mommy just spent 5 days with her in the hospital. She said why was my father in Florida. She said that my father and his brother wanted her to die. I told her that wasn't true. I was crying. I kept telling her we all loved her, that I loved her. I told her a little about going to Panama, but she didn't seem interested. I tried to give her cake. She literally ate a crumb. She spit up the second crumb I tried to give her. I told her to eat it, that I baked it for her. She begged for ice water. I brought a Styrofoam cup (Who still uses Styrofoam cups?) of ice water with a straw to her lips and she drank greedily. "Why am I so thirsty?" She asked me to get the nurse and get a bedpan. The nurse and I chatted; she didn't give any horribly terrible news. My grandma kept saying, "They say you don't get out of her alive." I told her that wasn't true; she had been in St. Francis Hospital several times before. She said she wanted to go home. I said she needed to get better, go to rehab. She didn't care. "I just want to go home." I pointed out that she couldn't walk to go to the bathroom or get food, so she couldn't go on like this. She needed to get stronger first. I held her hand, kissed her cheek, told her I loved her. She asked when my daddy was coming. I showed her photos of the kitties, but she wasn't that interested. She seemed lethargic and unable to engage in a way I hadn't seen before.

Saturday my aunt, a nurse, visited her. She is my mom's sister, so not related to my grandma. She talked to the doctor. My grandma had elevated levels of one of her heart medications in her blood - that was making her lethargic. Once she was stabilized, she would be stronger. "On Monday, she'll go to a rehab center." The plan was for my mom to fly up on Monday and help her move, and my dad to come on Tuesday or Wednesday.

I was relieved. It was going to get better. She was suffering, but we could figure it out.

I went over to my friend Beth's. I was in a bit of a distracted mood, upset. We went to another party. I drank cocktails and was distracted and tried to have conversations with people, but pretty much failed. My sister called. I figured I'd call her when I left. When I got out of there, distracted and upset around 11, I texted my sister in the cab. She immediately wrote back, "Grandma is doing worse. She went to the cardiac care unit."

I called her and began bawling as soon as she began sharing information. Grandma's blood pressure suddenly dropped. The doctor was concerned because of her age; she might not be able to bounce back. My parents were flying back the following morning. That told me it was really bad. I called Wayne after I got off and asked if he'd take me to the hospital in the morning. My cabbie offered his condolences, and we chatted as I bawled. Nice guy. He told me about his grandmother giving me couscous and goat milk when he was younger. He said he still misses her and she died 20 years ago.

I called the hospital and they said I could come after 10 a.m. I figured I wouldn't set an alarm because I'd wake up on time. I put out a nice outfit - a cashmere sweater (Grandma loves cashmere.), a nice pleated skirts, cute tights, boots. We went to bed.

I woke up at 9a.m. Wow. Late for me. I went into the kitchen, and began making pancakes. Wayne and I ate and chatted.

As I was about to hop into the shower, my mom called. "The hospital called your uncle. They think it might only be a few hours."

I jumped into speedy mode. I took a 3 minute shower, threw on clothes, and dragged Wayne out the door. He was looking for his gloves, and I was like, "USE MINE WE NEED TO GO."

In the hospital, my parents weren't yet there. I saw the nurse and thought maybe she already died. Her room looked empty. The nurse said she was in there. She was so small I didn't notice the lumps on the blankets. She said to go in. She was honest. "We are treating this as aggressively as we can, but she's doing terrible. We're doing everything we can."  I asked if I could go in. "Yes. She's not responsive, but I believe she will hear you. You can talk to her."

I went in and I stopped. I began immediately crying. "She didn't look like this on Friday. Oh my god. Grandma..."

The nurse nodded. She knew what had happened.

I went in. With tears in my throat, with Wayne behind me, I touched her shoulder. Her eyes were closed. There was blood rimming her nose, around her lips. A tear was stuck to the side of her face. Her hair was flat and smaller. Her skin was darker; splotches. She seemed struggling. I held her shoulder. The nurse said, "Her hands are so cold," and gently put mittens around her hands. Tears streamed down. I talked about Wayne, about the cats, about my sister, about her babies, about anything and everything. I was desperately hoping she'd respond.

Someone came in to test the pacemaker. We chatted a little, but I tried to keep talking to Grandma. I cried a lot. My parents came in. I immediately ran into the arms, crying. I told them to talk to grandma, that she could hear, and I gave all the information that the nurse had given me. My dad went over. "Hi, ma, it's me. Kenny. I came from Florida to visit you."

As my father began stammering as tears poured out of his eyes, I could see something change in my grandma. Relaxing. She knew he was there. She was at peace. I tried to continue to talking to her, and the nurse and my mom talked. My mom came back in, and gestured wildly to my dad and I and my brother. The nurse had asked her if she wanted DNR, that it was the humane thing to do. I knew what my grandma wanted, but I let my dad answer. He agreed. But then the machines began beeping, and someone said, "She's coding." I didn't know what it meant, but I did. The doctor came running in. Somehow we were talking with him, and my uncle was put on speaker phone. My uncle said, "She hasn't been eating. She's anorexic, that's why she's here--" and my mom interrupted him, "Yeah, but right now. Right now." My dad and my uncle agreed.

We said goodbye. We told her we loved her. I thanked her. We said goodbye from the animals, and my sister and her kids and Brian, and told her we all loved her. I squeezed her shoulder, and then went into the hallway. 

We all hugged each other. We were crying. I called my sister and told her the sad news. I texted a few people. I cried. My knees grew weak. I cried. I cried. I cried.

The doctors and nurses were so nice and compassionate. 

My dad and brother and Wayne left; my mom and I would talk to the nurses. The nurse was like, "Do you want to see her?" I shook my head and cried. "Am I a bad person if I don't?" My mother said, "Of course not," and went in. Then she came out. "Cher, I think you should see her. She looks much better." 

I went in. She did. She looked at peace. I was glad I saw her like this. I wasn't aware of how much she was struggling and how she was in pain.

I'm glad she's not in pain, but I'm not glad she is gone. It hurts so bad. I miss her so terribly. She never did eat the cakes I brought her. I'm sad that she'll never try another dessert of mine, or give me a kiss, or listen to a story, or anything. She had a sharp decline. She lived alone, her entire life. I'm happy she has as good of a life as she could. I miss you, grandma.

Papa, My Dear

My Papa died three and a half years ago. I still miss him.

I went down to visit my Gram and it's funny how pain recedes, but often flashes so fresh in certain instances. 

Gram still keeps his sweater hanging off the back of the chair. Greg, their neighbor, who died last year after a long, painful struggle with bone cancer, used to call him "pinky" because of it. Gram also has his ashes in the house, and his leopard-print Snuggie that my sister and I bought him because he was always cold.

Three and a half years ago, I talked to my Papa the day before I left for Burning Man. He was in the hospital, but moving to a rehab center. He sounded in good spirits. I told him to feel better, and that I loved him.

And then I went to my favourite week of the year, to Home. I thought of him, but I wasn't worried. He was getting better.

Thursday morning, while I biked with my good friend Rachelle to the Black Rock City Farmers Market, to much on carrots and pickled cauliflower and laugh and flirt and smile and be free, my dear Papa died. 

Gram was woken in the middle of the night, "Come quick; he's doing poorly." She sat by his side, watching her husband of so many years, of so much love and adoration, pass. He was unconscious, but she held his hand, whispering, "I love you." In reply, he squeezed her hand.

That night, while my Papa rest in a funeral home somewhere, and my family members suffered, I biked deep into the playa, shimmering in sparkles. I went to the temple and wrote on the wall. "Papa, I don't want you to be in pain anymore. Please get stronger and happy. I love you." It was impossible for me to know that he had died. He was already gone. Without cell phone service, reality was lost.

I left the playa, full of love and light. While Rachelle was driving, I called my mother.

"Is everyone okay?"

"How was it?"

"Is everyone alive?"

"Did you have fun?"

"Mom - did anyone die?"

"Papa."

With that, my world collapsed. My beloved Papa...The pain ripped through my whole body as I began bawling with a force that left me feeling ill.

I texted my boss, who was so understanding and told me to take all the time I needed. I went home, and cried, and washed my clothes, and cried. My sister flew to NY and we drank and I cried and I cried.

I flew to Florida to visit my Gram; she was holding up well. I slept in my Papa's side of their bed but couldn't really sleep. I'd wake up at 4 or 5am every day and head out for long runs,  five, six hours. I'd stop and fill my water bottle in parks along A1A, and cry. I'd hold it up in front of her, and play Rummicube, helped her go through his stuff. It was just so sad how much love she had for all his items, when I knew it would go to a thrift store where no one would care about it or know what a sweet man he had been. I hugged my Gram and tried to keep in most of my tears as we threw away medication, old shoes, and rearranged things. She was keeping busy.

When I got to the airport, they told me my flight was cancelled. I had to get back to NY the next day; I had a presentation at work. More than that, all the pain began leaking. I bawled at the ticket counter. Somehow I got on a plane and got home.

"My papa died," I told the guy on the plane next to me.

"I'm sorry about your father."

"No, he was my grandfather. And he was wonderful."

And he was. I miss him still, every day. I wish I could get a sloppy kiss on the cheek from him, give him a hug, hear his thick British accent. Even in death, love still doesn't die.

I love you, Papa.

Missing My Papa (Two Years Later, It's Still So Hard...)

Dear Papa,

In 2010, while I was in a swirling magical world of playa dust at Burning Man, you passed away, holding the hand of your beloved wife. I was broken-hearted at your death – you were such a beautiful source of love and light in my life. Your stories of being in the British Navy – your tales of London in your youth – your journeys around the globe in your work for British Airways – you and I had a special bond of family but also the love of travel.

When I last saw you, I gave you homemade cookies and sat on your bed in the rehab center. I kissed you and begged you to eat. I asked the nurses for extra soup. You were in pain. I was selfish for not wanting to let you go, for wanting you to live, even though you were in pain, even though you claimed you had a long wonderful life and you didn’t need any more. But sometimes, love motivates you beyond reason.

Papa, upon my re-entry from Burning Man to the default world in 2010, nothing seemed important. I missed goodbye. I missed your funeral. I missed the stories. And I missed you.

I told my mother about how sad I was – “Mom, I was probably dancing when he died,” I cried to her, missing you so desperately. She responded, “He would be happy you were. He loved life so much and would have wanted you to be enjoying every moment.”

Two years later, I still miss you desperately. At the temple burn this year, I will think of you – I will miss you, but I am also glad you aren’t in pain.

I love you so much, Papa.

Love,

Your Granddaughter, Cheryl aka Cherie aka CherryBomb

This 100's for You, Papa

When I ran the Iroquois Trail 50 Miler (now known as the Virgil Crest 50 Miler), the race was hard. Hilly, mountainous, exposed. It was a rough race but I still managed to scrape out a fairly respectable time, and I believe, was either 3rd or 4th woman. I was in a lot of pain, as we often are when running long distances - but I pushed forward. 

The same time, my Grandma was going through radiation for cancer. She has recurrent melanoma. I love my Grandma dearly and decided I would dedicate my race to Grandma. Anytime I felt pain, I thought, "This is nothing like what Grandma is experiencing. Grandma is in more pain. PUSH ON." And I did.


My Papa died nearly two years ago and there isn't a day that I don't miss him. Even writing this, I have tears in my eyes. He was such a special and wonderful man and I miss him dearly.


He wanted to die. He didn't want to be in pain anymore. 


I was not there when he died. I was at Burning Man. The moment he died, I was either starting to wake up or running to the farmer's market on the playa with my friend Rachelle. But that night, I went to the temple and wrote something for my Papa. I wrote, "Papa, I don't want you to be in pain anymore."


And he wasn't.


So, when I run the Vermont 100, although my Papa is now passed, I will think about him. My foot has been hurting me (I have an appt Friday morning 845, which should be enough time to cure me, right?). But even if nothing's wrong, 100 milers are painful. They suck. You are crying in the middle of the night, cursing at twigs, saying how you hate your mother for giving birth to you so that you might do this, glad your partner isn't there b/c you'd break up with them because of some silly excuse. Your shin hurts, your butt hurts, you stomach hurts, oh god, everything hurts.

This year, it'll hurt. I know it does, it always does. (Especially miles 70-100, oh god, at least I'll have fabulous pacers then!) But this time, I'll dig deep. Papa, this race is for you. You might not be here, but I'll be thinking of you. And when it hurts, I'll remember the pain you suffered. I'll remember the light you were in so many people's lives.

And I'll push on.

Grandma 50k

So there's actually no race called the Grandma 50k, but I invented it myself. I suggest you invent one yourself. Plot out how long it will take you to get to your grandma's. My grandma lives 16 miles from me, so I ran the long way, the scenic route. The route that takes you to south Brooklyn, to Queens, through the Rockaways and up to the Five Towns, then Valley Stream, ending at my grandma's house.


I left my house noon on Friday. I headed through Greenpoint and Williamsburg, saying goodbye to snazzily dressed runners and hipsters as I headed for some of the rougher areas. I passed street names that would have caused a pit in the stomach to many, streets that I have been warned to not go down. People smiled at me, a silly white woman running through the streets, ignoring me. I was of no consequence to their day.


I was on some ugly streets for a while, busy streets. I asked pedestrians for directions and they were often perplexed. "That's pretty far..."


Finally, I was on Flatbush. Over the Marine Parkway Bridge, a bridge I had run over with Crista a while back, I looked at the water below me, powered ahead. I didn't like this bridge for some reason, but no matter. It must be crossed, unless I wanted to swim. As the temps were in the thirties and forties, run the bridge it clearly was. And it wasn't too terrible. Just bumpy.

The Rockaways have some lovely parts. My father, who taught there his entire career, and used to live there "when things were good" might disagree, but there are some pretty houses (Okay, so that's Belle Harbor), the boardwalk is nice, and the people are friendly. But there's a beach, and I'd rather be on the beach than any other place...


I asked these kids for directions; two of the girls appeared to be late teens, so I figured they might know. They looked at me snidely. "That street's down there. A while."


Then one of the smaller kids piped up, "You running there?"


"Yeah."


"That's FAR!"


"Oh, it won't be too bad."

"Where you came from?"

"Greenpoint. Brooklyn."


"Where's Greenpoint?"


"It's by Williamsburg."


"Wow. And where you going?"


"My grandma's on Long Island."


"What? You crazy! Mad props!"


And I got high fives, which felt great.


I kept going. I was starving, fantasizing about those amazing sugar cookies you get at bakeries with all the sprinkles. Of course the Rockaways are not known for their bakeries and my next area, the Five Towns, is Jewish, and it was Friday just before sunset, which means that nothing is open. Sigh. Oh, the suffering...I dreamt of those cookies for a really long time.


I became really tired. My pace grew sluggish. Where I started 8-9minute pace and felt like I was flying, a 10minute pace felt extremely difficult through the Five Towns. I ate pretzels. I ate a gel. I drank some water, not enough.


And I started getting closer...Valley Stream! I knew where I was...I pushed the pace...I felt amazing. There was the shop where I bought my prom dress, the thrift stores that supplied my high school wardrobe, the park my friend and I ran at in high school. I no longer had to consult with my Google Map directions to know where I was going.


I pushed it. Hard. Faster. I got it. I really had it.


I sang while I ran. I breathed in. Out. I felt everything, I felt so alive, so amazing. "Umstead is going to be a blast!"


I arrived at Grandma's! I went to give her a hug, and she immediately began yelling at me. "You shouldn't run so far. Your body - it's going to fall apart. Your bones are going to collapse! Your knees! You shouldn't run!"

She immediately fed me homemade Italian stuffed peppers, escaraole and white bean soup, and chocolates, like a good Grandma. Then we went out to dinner, where I impressed everyone with my appetite, and looked forward to a night in bed...

Not every day has to be a race. I like training runs with a purpose, and this was a great one - I could see my grandma, run in a different place. I had to get there before dark or grandma would worry, so that forced me to keep a steady, strong pace.


And much like a Horton race, this was a 50k++.

Missing Papa

His pink sweater still hangs on the back of the chair in the dining room. I still miss my Papa more than ever. Last year at this time was the last time I had seen him...

Anytime I hear a variation of his name, "Charles" or "Russ," I get a lump in my throat after I look for him and realize he's not here.

I know he'd be so proud of me, interested in my last trip, asking me questions, worrying about me a little. I know he'd say, "Running fifty bloody miles? You're crazy." But I know he'd give me another sloppy kiss on the cheek and a hug.

Times makes it better, but in a way, it hurts more, because they're further from you.

Missing Gram

I'm 31, but sometimes, I feel like I'm 13. 

My hotel is pretty deserted right now, and I just went into the courtyard to get some water. I saw no one but just got the vibe of my Gram's house. Of course, it's where Papa lived too, but now, Papa's gone. I can never get one of his sloppy kisses or hug him or listen to him tell me all his travel stories from his days in the British Navy.

But Gram, Gram I'll see in just a few weeks.

I miss the black ceramic sugar creamers she had as decoration on the bookshelves, where she had those old "girl" mysteries I devoured as a child. I miss her red lipstick, her seashell purse. I miss her sensible pants and white sandals and the occasionally-baked-but-delicious coffeecake, and her grilled cheese with too much butter (but so good). I miss her hugs, and her naggings. 

There was just a vibe of Gram in the air, and you need to go with it sometimes. Enjoy the thoughts of them, embrace them. And in just a few weeks, I'll be in Florida, embracing Gram herself.

and then it crushed down on me

That he's not coming back. I'm never going to see him again. I don't need to talk to Lissy about what to get him for Christmas (he always loved those Sarah Brightman CDs, musical movies, good chocolates...) - because he's never coming back. He's gone. He's dead. And it's so hard to accept that but it's finally really hitting me.

He's nothing to you but so much to me. Isn't it funny how people are like that?
 
I miss my Papa.

Decompressing

I am coming off the most amazing week at Burning Man to a real shocker and some horrible news - my grandfather has died. Papa was an amazing, wonderful man who I loved very dearly. Before I left, my mother hinted at her true worries. Not only did I miss saying goodbye to him (although no one but my grandma was with him at the end), but I missed the funeral. My parents, sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, everyone was down in Florida. They all toasted a shot of O'Doull's which he used to drink - he thought it was real beer which we didn't give him because he'd get drunk too quickly.

Oh, Papa.

One of the best things about him was his love for my grandmother. It would've been 62 years of lovely marriage - and they were so in love all those years. I can only hope that I could have the chance to be in love like that for so many wonderful years..

Decompression will be especially hard this year. I've done most of my laundry (piles of sparkles and tutus and fake fur dot my apartment right now, both clean and still dusty), have a few small piles of things to go through. I have many memories to deal with, some photos to process. Like all years at Burning Man, I find myself questioning the future of my life. Is this is? Is this what I want? Where am I going? Shall I hold his hand and close my eyes and jump straight in? (I'm going with yes on this one.)

I don't know anything. Tomorrow I'm going to head out for a long run to clear my head - maybe I'll go twenty miles, maybe fifty. I don't know. And then I want to cry out all the pain. On September 11th, overwhelmed, unable to contact Jessica, I ran. I ran. I run to deal with the pain sometimes. Right now all I want to do is curl up in a ball with my furball and cry into her fur. And because she's the only one around, and that seems like the best option right now, that's what I'm off to do.

I love you, Papa.

 

In Memory of My Grandfather, Who Died Thursday

“You will find as you look back upon your life that the moments when you have truly lived are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love.”

—Harry Drummond


Foreign servicemen held no interest for Elizabeth Schmiko. In 1945, a friend invited Betty to a dance for foreign servicemen at the Museum of Modern Art. Betty declined. However, she called back her friend to reverse decision on the condition that another friend, Peasy could come to the dance as well.

At the dance, a young handsome soldier named Charles Russell found love with Elizabeth Schimko. A gentleman, Charles saw her home.

She told Charles that one of her beaus smoked a pipe. The next time they met, he was smoking a pipe. He later remembered, “It was disgusting. I smoked for about a month and that was all I could do.”

Charles was immediately smitten with Betty. Betty wasn’t so sure. Charles offered, “I love you,” to which the callous Betty would reply, “I love you like a brother.”

During their courtship, they would go to the movie theatre at Grand Central Station. They probably didn’t watch much of the movies, since they spent much of their time necking, which was “terribly fun.” They spend their lunch breaks together, talking and eating.

Prior to asking his love for her hand in marriage, Charles had to ask permission from Betty’s mother. Her mother didn’t particularly approve of the poor sailor with an accent she could not understand. He was excited to spend extra time at her house, but when he arrived to ask permission, Mrs. Schmiko had sent Betty out shopping. Mrs. Schimko was questioned him if he was making enough money to support Betty in a lifestyle similar to the one she was currently living (He wasn’t.) and questioned his intentions. Finally, she relented.


On New Year’s Eve December 31, 1946/New Year’s Day January 1, 1947, as the clock struck midnight, Charles proposed. She accepted.

An old sweetheart pursued Betty, even while she was engaged to Charles, and he was engaged to his fiancé. The old beau called Betty one last time. “If you want to break it off, say the word, and we can get married.” Betty declined.

They were married in September. They moved into the 3rd floor apartment of her mother’s house in New Rochelle.  He began to work for British Airways, and eventually, they moved out of the maid’s quarters to their house on Long Island.

They had four impossible children, and nine even more impossible grandchildren. They traveled, spent winters in Florida, and found the best Early Bird dinner specials.

Life or Death....

My Papa (grandfather) said to my mother, "I want to die. I've had a long life. I'm happy. I want to die."

Selfishly, I don't want him to die - he gives so much happiness to me and many others who loves him (and admittedly, aggravation to my grandma), but my mother asked me, "Why shouldn't someone be able to decide when they are done? If they've lived a full life, why can't they choose to stop?"

I am not making anyone's decisions on what to do with their lives. I don't want anyone to have unnecessary suffering or unhappiness, and if people can't do anything to alleviate pain - well, people need to live their lives as they see fit.

That said, if my papa did take his life, I would collapse into tears. 

Right now, I'll continue to cherish each and every beautiful moment of my life -- runs, a smile from a strange on the street, a delicious cup of tea. I'm looking forward to seeing my papa again, whenever he is strong enough to make it back to NY or I am able to fly down to see him.

those moments

those moments come when you least expect it. like when you're in the card aisle of cvs on a break from work, picking out a father's day card for your father. you don't have a lot of time, so you decide to leave the father's day card for your grandfather until another day. (you have, after all, over a month until father's day.) and this is fine, until you realize: you may not need a father's day card for your grandfather. he is 89 and having surgery this week.

and you try not to crumple into tears with q-tips, hair elastics, toothpaste, and a father's day card for dad in your arms, and someone reaches past you to open an insipid musical card, and new york city never lets you have peace - but sometimes, it's easier this way.

the importance of the important

lately, i've really been evaluating my life and seeing what is important. my grandma has recurrent melanoma; it's an extremely aggressive form of cancer. it came back again in her leg, and so there's been lots of talk abt no chemo, abt surgery, abt radiation, abt what-to-do. my gram is getting surgery, then radiation, and it's a scary, sad, hard process.

last week, after much thought and decision, t and i drove down to florida. (or rather, he drove all but one hour and i sat in the passenger seat, babbling and knitting and dozing.) it was great seeing my grandparents, but i think the worst thing, was the talk of "what-would-happen-to-papa [my grandpa]-should-something-happen-to-gram"? i realized that quite possibly, not only would i lose one grandparent in a short period of time, but two. gram makes sure papa eats, takes care of himself, doesn't drink too much, and she gives him love and life.

"i can't comprehend it!" i told t as we drove to easter dinner. "i can't imagine...i can't imagine what it would be like."

shortly after, i curled into the fetal position as t drove. "you okay?" he asked, and i replied quite honestly, "no." we drove in silence until shortly after, racking hysterical sobs overtook my body. i couldn't control it and he pulled over when he could and held me as i cried.

a coworker called me the next day, freaking out abt a petty deadline. i had no sympathy. how can i? my grandmother is sick, this is life or death. it's so hard to care about things like deadlines and formatting on a document and when someone says "i need this urgently" i know they don't. you need oxygen, food, water, and not cancer to live, not some stupid research.

this situation has forced me to think a lot abt my life, abt how i am not living like i want to live...and i'm starting to make changes. small ones, but i need to write more, live more, spend more time with my family and less time with petty bs.

ultrarunning is not unhealthy

a great post here!

whenever my mom says, "all that running is bad for you," i reply, "i eat a vegetarian, whole-grain, primarily organic diet. i sleep 7-8 hours a night, strength train, stretch, cross-train, do yoga, and yes, i run a ridiculous amount. once you start working on five days a week [as is now recommended] and stop eating fast food and all that processed crap, we can talk."

i love my mom but i wish she would not nag me; i'll nag her when she nags me. she is getting better, exercising more. she just needs to kick that damn nutrasweet habit.

marriage means gifts

my sister got engaged and i'm trying to find a nice gift for her. i've been looking for this since they got engaged two or so weeks ago. i wanted to do something rad, like get them canoing lessons or something, but she lives with her fiancee down in the south and i really don't know what would be the best. so i've been hopelessly shopping. my mom has given me the most pathetic ideas--"how about candlestick holders?" maybe she would like that, but that is SO far removed from my idea of a good gift i could never possibly get it.

so i'm looking online to try to get something they would like and it never fails to astound me the expensive shit that they sell...crystal wine bottle holder...random decorations and expensive platters. and i'm totally disgusted at the waste of money for these things--i mean, there are people who haven't eaten in days and who are dying right now with nothing and to buy some of these gifts seems totally superfluous and excessive. at the same time, they are carefully advertised, and you think, "oh i wish i had that..." it's interesting at the way advertising tries to fuck with your brains.

anyway i just thought of a sweet gift to get her, i just have to find out the perfect version of it. i want to give her a gift to celebrate the fact that she and her boyfriend are in love and are committing themselves to a lifetime of loving each other--which is a very sweet notion--because THAT is what marriage is about, not a fancy wedding and all this bullshit society tries to convince us it is about.

my sister doesn't read this blog much, but if you are reading liss, your gift is coming and will be selected with love in celebration of love.

growing up

my baby sister is engaged and getting married. she has a very different life than i do--lives in a nice suburban house with all sorts of nice normal suburban things--but still, this really clues me in that she is an adult. oh no, wait, if she's an adult and younger than me...i must be an adult.

parties wearing fairy wings and trips to the middle east--are those for adults?

they're for me!