My friends and I have a list of the ugliest words in the English language. Words like "moist" and "fester" and "soggy" -- words that (by themselves and paired with others) just make your skin crawl and your stomach squeeze up real tight. Like moist for instance: if you've seen Heath Ledger as the Joker in Dark Knight, can you picture that little tick of his, where he moistens his lips, the slippery smacking sound it makes, the redness of his skin, and the saliva just shining on his face. Sick, right? Well, we have a whole list of words like that. Words that are just a little too good at what they do.
I've added another word to that list: dead.
Dead. Death. Dying. Died. Deceased. Dead. Dead dead DEAD.
The word is just so pronounced and final from beginning to end, so quick and to the point, so empty, hard, and unaware -- uncaring, insensitive, so ignoring -- of all of the baggage that it drops at your door, all the ugly, twisted scars it leaves on otherwise smooth skin, all of the hollowed out space it leaves cold and bare, or even the quiet, peaceful moments, and strengthened bonds. Death is just dead is just dying, and it died.
My Grandmother died on Saturday. I know Grandmother shouldn't be capitalized there, but I think she always deserves a tall G. If you've ever had a conversation with me, you've heard at least a little about this woman. She is the greatest, kindest, strongest, silliest, smartest, most wonderful and gentle, peaceful, and happy woman EVER. I love her with all of my heart -- she is the center of my world, always has been.
I'd never thought of my Gram as "old" before. I mean, she was turning 89 this year. That's not that old, is it? She's never acted old in her life.
I'm home for another week or so, and I plan to continue my digging. I've already packed away my share of jewelry and sweaters, sweet sneaks, and chic scarves. I've pawed through hundreds of photos and I will spend a lot of time in the next week scanning them. I'll keep writing, too. I'm penning down all the great lessons and stories of Gram -- from her courage as a single, working mother (in my sister's words) "when being neither single, nor working was fashionable for women," to her quirky cures involving tub after tub of vaseline, to cozy bubble baths and moo-moo's, decades of dancing, dating a lesbian (what a story!), taking off and traveling the world, to her legendary love and patience.
The other day in the hospice Danielle was talking to Gram. Daniel O'Donnell was pouring from the cd player on the bedside table. Her foot was tapping. She took a break from dancing with her right hand and held onto Danielle's. Gram took a deep breath. "I just want you all to know I am doing alright." And she let out a grand "Whoopee!"
Stayed tuned for more tales and photos of a real life wonder woman.
Eva Marie Byerly 1920-2009
(p.s. it's pronounced Eh-Vah, not Eee-vah.)
(p.s. it's pronounced Eh-Vah, not Eee-vah.)
Eva Marie Byerly
1 comment:
Collette and I were just talking about how "dead" is such a succinct, final word. There is no hope or opportunity from release if you're "dead." You can say she died, because it's a fact. But for some reason, you can't say she's dead, because that's not a fact. She's not dead at all. She may be somewhere else, but she's not dead.
I remember the first time I felt the connotation dead gives. My cousin and I were racing around my grandma's house with blankets on our shoulders, and my cousin was using one of the crocheted throws on the couch. My grandma stopped him, got kinda consternated, and told him not to use it "because my mother made that and she won't be making any more because she's dead." Even though I was young, I wanted to correct my grandma. My grandma knows that she'll see her mother again, but still, I don't feel like she should have used that word.
We all die, but none of us will ever become dead.
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