It is like a timer, this tap on the mental shoulder. He is never late.
At about the same time for each anniversary of her death, I pop up and look at my phone. It happened again this morning. So I did what I usually do, which is write.
It was 4:34 a.m. the nursing home called me. The voice on the other end of the line was resolute, firm, and empathetic, a feat that can only be accomplished through years of expertise in life.
“Is this Todd?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to tell you your grandmother is gone.”
All I could muster was, “I understand.”
“I see you have a plan in place so I will let you handle it.”
About ten minutes later, the lady at the funeral home murmured, “Ok when you are ready.”
Just like that, I am reading my credit card number over the phone to pay for the expenses that will see her sent to rest with my grandfather. And then it was over. And then it had just begun.
It all seemed so impersonal, however, had to be done. It was a remarkable feat of modern technology, the ability to arrange from the comfort of an apartment in Tempe, AZ a funeral process ending in Houston, TX.
My grandfather died in Baytown, just east of Houston, which is where we were living at the time, and buried in that VA cemetery. I never liked that place, although I suppose I don’t know how I could. Some of the deepest pain I ever felt was there. Someday I will likely bring them both back to St. Louis to the VA cemetery there, but you know how someday is.
Someday is a code for “I need more funding.” But I do intend to. Looking back on it now, it seems like five minutes ago. For some reason, I remember placing the card back in my wallet but don’t remember pulling it out. I remember walking to the closet and putting back the wallet, too. It felt like a door had closed. That door was my tumultuous childhood. I was born when she was but a shade more then three years older than I am now.
I remembered her as a young woman, not the woman plagued with dementia who looked directly at me, and when I asked her if she knew who I was said, “No, but you sure are a handsome boy, whoever you are.” She had never really said that to me in her more vibrant years, although she had hinted at it.
“You look like my Daddy. All the ladies liked him.” That was about it. But on this cold, lonely, desolate day in January of 2018, all she could do was stare at me blankly, with no idea of who I was whatsoever.
I suppose that is the burn of this particular illness. When a loved one has dementia, the family goes through a process of two funerals, one, the day there will be no more connection as a family due to memory loss, and two, the day the loved one dies. For my part, I left the funeral home and went to my hotel, walked over to the hockey themed grill and bar next door, and drank, as Mr. Bojangles might have said, “a bit.”
I then went to my room where I talked to my wife, who was still at home working in Texas, on the phone for an hour. I realized two things, that next sober morning. My grandma was never going to recognize me again, and she, according to the doctors, was unlikely to see 2019.
But I had just seen my grandma watch TV and laugh and eat. In the middle stages of this disease there is residual function, so it seems like they should know you. And they do know some people, in fact, one of the most infuriating aspects of this whole episode was who she did recognize, on the television.
I asked her, “Do you know who that is?”
“The Orange bastard,” she replied.
She knew Trump. She did not recognize me, or my mother, or baby brother, but this man’s indelible brand of malevolence and seared through dementia, as if she were mentally branded by her repulsion towards this man.
Towards the end, she would wake up screaming with night terrors, talking about the Bible, which I am told, is not unusual. She would yell about Trump. But she never communicated with me again.
The day before, we were told her time was short. She had quit eating and slept nearly constantly. Her breathing had grown shallow. Death was near. Valerie and I spent the night watching Perfect Strangers on Hulu, and fell asleep around 1 a.m. We have not watched Perfect Strangers since.
And then the phone rang..
And for some reason when that call was completed, I thought about Erich Weiss. Erich was a man who was so taut, and so strong in his core, that he attracted a person willing to test that in his dressing room. Jocelyn Gordon Whitehead would proceed to punch him so hard, that Erich winced in pain and asked for a cessation of the experiment.
Within two weeks, appendicitis would take the life of the man known as Harry Houdini, on Halloween, at the age of 52.
You see I was convinced I was mentally prepared. I had no doubt I could take the punch. I did endure it. But at times I thought it would kill me. I know now something I failed to consider then: Don’t ever focus on how tough you think you are, focus on the fact that you will need to be tougher.
I was mad at myself. I knew her time was drawing to a close. Everyone did. She was 91. But the little boy inside of me who used to play catch while she was still springy in her 50’s didn’t understand. In that little boy’s mind he was still playing catch, and then one moment, just like that, he lobbed a throw that just rolled, because she was gone.
And as I put down that phone, and put the credit card in my wallet, I walked towards the sight of that pudgy little fellow in my mind’s eye, who had now dropped to his knees because never again would the ball be thrown back. Never again would she have my Toasted Ravs ready for me when I visited. Never again would we open presents or share hot chocolate under the Christmas tree.
The 41 year-old Todd knew that. But in that moment only an inconsolable 8 year-old child stood in the body of a six foot 2 and a half, 230 pound man. And as I tried to console that child within me, he too disappeared. With the death of my last living grandparent, my childhood came to a close. The 8 year-old took his glove, and ball, and said goodbye.
He might have been small, but seeing him utterly broken packed quite a punch. And at times I still miss him. I miss his innocence and hopeful nature. I miss his utter lack of cynicism, and his smile. So he visits. Remember how I said “he” is never late?” He is that 8 year-old boy inside of me. He wakes me up on certain days, to remind me he is still here, perhaps subconciously, driving me to not be cold. To not lose empathy. To never throw away the glove my grandpa saved up to buy me when I was 7.
Maybe sitting here, on another anniversary, at the same time, is his way of saying, “I’m still here. It’s ok. Go ahead and cry.”
Like now. At age 46, no less vulnerable to the pangs of emotion that stun, or incapacitate. No colder to the world. No less empathetic to the notion that on the other side of the world, crying children are seeing their families get destroyed by war, never to have their throws returned to them by their loved one, either.
I wonder why pain is so constantly present in life. I don’t expect I will ever find an answer to that. Yet the familar sadness every October 20th is accompanied by a dogged determination to move forward, and find some joy in life for myself but also, spread it to others.
I guess for all of my education, and experience, and abilities, the little fellow returns to remind me that there are so many other lonely, sad people, standing in the shadows of their own pain, glove in the air, but no ball being thrown back, utterly shattered in the moment of realization.
And so I close by reminding myself, that I too have a rhetorical glove, and ball, and while you can’t replace my grandma, and I can’t replace yours, nothing is keeping us from throwing it to each other and in the process, finding purpose and happiness again.
Friendship, is kinship.
So while today I will wrestle with grief, and spend time with my inner child, I will also say that if you see a “ball” in life, lying still, somewhere not too far away is someone in pain with a glove.
Find them, and toss it back.
Because sometimes the phone rings..
And then you may need to throw, as much as they need to catch.
-ROC
In loving memory of Wanda J. Bennett, November 24th, 1926 - October 20th, 2018
By now most of you know what I do. I am grateful for any support or endorsements of my work in the comments because yes, I very much need it.
But this diary is about Wanda J. Bennett, so this space, is reserved for her.
Love,
Todd
