Sure, there have been deaths in my family, but in my immediate family, really only one.
Though anytime a family member passes away it is terrible and saddening, I'd be lying if I said I feel the same sorrow every time.
Of the non-immediate family deaths I can recall, there's George, my great uncle and Nelson, my step-grandfather. The memories I have of them, though not plentiful, are pleasant. But even though I truly miss the both of them, their passing can be healed by time.
I don't have a single friend that hasn't lost multiple people who were close to them. I've heard the terrible stories of losing mothers, fathers, siblings and grandparents, but I have never had to tell one myself.
I made it to age 18 before my first death.
G was my first.
Audrie Jean Wasylasko didn't want to be called "Grandma", "Grammy" or any other name that people insist on calling their grandmother. Apparently she was "too young to be a grandmother." So we called her "G" for short.
I grew up in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, a very short drive away from my grandparents' house. G and Buppie (we'll get into the story of why we call him Buppie another day) were always gracious hosts of early morning get-together's, family dinners, and any holiday festivities that needed a venue.
There were decorations around their house every time a new celebration approached, and the accessories even altered by season. You couldn't have the same look for winter that you had for spring. It was non-negotiable.
99 Dorothea Drive had dark greenish blue carpet, which was almost always covered with Thomas the Tank Engine railroad tracks. The only sitting spots in the room that were permanently reserved were a pink chair for Auntie Suz and a wooden rocking chair for G. While Suz and G sat cross-legged knitting up a storm, everyone else either grabbed a piece of carpet or sat on the long, white couch. Our family could sit there for hours days on end just chatting.
If there's one thing I'll remember G for, it's conversation.
Along with my parents and my brother, I moved away from Dartmouth at age four. After a brief stint in upstate New York, we found a home in Ottawa and have lived here ever since.
It didn't matter where you were in the world, G was just a phone call away.
Though my family and I made numerous trips back to Nova Scotia over the years, for the better part of knowing each other, G and I spent our time on the phone.
We talked about her two favourite things: sports and her grandchildren. If it was baseball season, the Toronto Blue Jays latest gaffs would be a hot topic and if there was any snow on the ground, we'd bicker about the Senators and her favourite team, the Leafs.
She was always the interviewer and I always sat back and answered any question she could think of. Our chats always started off with a quick inquiry about how I was doing in school. It seemed mandatory. I'd answer with an "I'm doing alright" and we'd get on to more important things.
She would ask about my friends and how they were doing. She would ask about my latest hockey game. She would ask me about my mother, even though they talked almost every night. She would ask about my father's children (my half brother and half sister) a lot. That was one of the best parts about G. Though my parents divorced a long time ago, she was always interested in what my dad's side of the family was up to.
I was almost never the one to end our conversations. G always thought she was keeping me from something, when I had all the time in the world for her.
"OK darling. Well, you pass me back to your mother now. We'll talk again soon."
"Alright, G. I'll call you next week. I love you."
"I love you too, sweetie."
***
February 11, 2014.
At the time, I was going to school in Fredericton, New Brunswick at St. Thomas University. It was five minutes from class time and I was just about out of my room when I received a call from my mother.
I had known G was very sick, but I'd also thought the doctors had given her a few more months. I had planned to go see her one last time in March, but it wasn't going to happen that way.
I'd be seeing her much sooner.
When my mother broke the news to me, I didn't have a word to say. It's weird how in your head you always think a situation like that will pan out a certain way. You'll be balling your eyes out, struggling to make any sense as you fumble over your words and you'll be so devastated you might even puke. But at that moment, I had nothing.
I understood what had happened, but I didn't know how to react. In fact, I was more thinking about how I should be reacting. I thought it was inhuman of me not to be breaking down at the moment, but still, I sat there.
A couple hours later, I was on my way to Dartmouth.
A day or so before the funeral, I got to see G one last time.
After a long wait in an office room at the funeral home, a director came and asked us if we were ready to go see G.
Out of the six of us present, I was the only one who wanted to go in alone. I needed to. I wanted one last moment, one last time to be around her.
The director walked me to the doors of the room where G was and from there, I was on my own.
I opened the doors and creeped into what looked like a small scale church. There were rows upon rows of long pews between myself and where the coffin lay at the front of the room. Where I was standing, I could see her hands interlocked sitting on her chest and her nose was peeking out of the coffin. It must've taken me ten minutes to finally get up to the front. Not because it was a long walk, but because it's hard to move when you're shaking uncontrollably.
When I first saw her up close, I was petrified. Once a bright-faced, fluffy-haired joyful presence, I looked down on this woman who had had her life taken from her. Her skin looked almost green, her lips were sewn together and the skin on her face looked as if it was pulled back towards her ears. Her features were more bony than usual and all I could think of was that this corpse in front of me was a completely different person.
I stepped back a few feet, scared.
"That's not G," I whimpered. "That's not G. That's not my G. That's not G. That's not her. It's not her."
After I was done denying that the woman in the coffin wasn't my grandmother, I sat beside her for a few minutes and collected what was left of my composure.
I thought of saying something to her. I thought of the last time we talked. I thought of how I hadn't talked to her in weeks. I thought of how I should've called her sooner. I thought of her last night alive. I thought about what went through her mind in her last day.
Did she think of me? Did she talk about me? Did she understand what she truly meant to me? Did she know how much I cherished every moment? Did she know how much I loved her? Did she believe that I loved her? Did she believe that I loved her? Did she truly believe that I loved her?
She had to know. She had to know how much I loved her.
I spoke few words aloud to her. One sentence, no more.
"I hope you're proud of me."
Nothing else seemed to matter. All I wanted was for her to know that I lived to impress her. I lived to be someone that she was pleased with. I needed her to be happy with me. For some reason, telling her those words felt like the most sincere thing I could have said to her.
I didn't know what the appropriate time to be finished sitting beside her was. I could stay all day and sleep beside her that night if they let me. But my family needed their turn as well.
I'll always remember how I left her.
Facing her coffin, I started slowly walking backwards. Maybe one step every minute. I went until the back of my head hit against the doors and then slowly turned to exit.
***
Before the funeral, I had done my fair share of crying over the past few days. Through stories with my family, listening to all their favourite moments with G, I wept for all the right reasons.
I guess I had cried out all the liquid in my body because I had managed to keep my eyes dry for the entirety of the funeral.
Until the final act.
The minister brought out three people from the choir and said G had chosen Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah as her last song.
I don't think there's a song in the world that can move me the way Cohen's Hallelujah can.
It took me to the third verse until I broke down like I never have before.
Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
I tried to hold it in. For some reason I didn't want anyone to see me cry that day. But G wouldn't let that happen.
***
Audrie Jean Wasylasko was a lover. There's no other title that suits her better. All she ever did was love.
I see her in my dreams occasionally.
In the past year, I've enjoyed sleeping more than ever.
No comments:
Post a Comment