I love this photograph of Marilyn Monroe (taken by Andre de Dienes). No glamour, no pretense - just a young woman caught in a moment.
I discovered Marilyn when I was 19 and living with my grandmother in Des Moines. Going through a difficult transition (19 is tough, I think), I found little to be excited about - until Marilyn: She fascinated me completely.
I don't know what she's thinking here, but her expression certainly mirrors what I'm feeling. These past weeks have been excruciating and I'm beginning to realize that I'm never going to be the same person I was before my grandmother passed. It (an undefinable "it") surpasses sadness and grief - at least any that I've known; everything inside of me is displaced and achy. There's a gaping hole somewhere in my heart or soul or some place that I can't quite define. I feel broken inside - I imagine that if I could find the pieces and put them back in place, I'd be okay - but I get the feeling that some of those pieces are gone forever.
I keep thinking I'm going to be able to write about the death - the actual act of dying. I have to imagine that not too many people have had the privilege of being with a loved one as they transition from being to, well, no longer being. I'm still working up to it, but I feel like the time is coming.
This - all of these posts - is my way of processing, dealing, trying to understand this incredibly profound event. It's also a way of memorializing an occasion that, at some point, I have to imagine my children will want to know more about. It's not really for the general public. It doesn't really have anything to do with the purpose or intent of this blog.
It's just me - stripped bare - raw emotion exposed, trying to cope and not wanting to lose the memories I have of this woman who played such a significant role in my life. However, much like the pain I'm feeling, it's not likely that I'll ever be able to find the words to adequately express any of it.
We tend to sweep things under the rug - put on a good face - try to be strong - blah, blah, blah. I've never been that kind of person. I just want to scoop out this terrific pain and examine it. I want to sift through the ugliest and most painful emotions so that I can understand them fully and, hopefully, move on.
I'm not looking for answers nor am I trying to understand. My grandmother was 87 years-old when she died. She lived a wonderful life and I wouldn't have changed a moment of the time that I was able to spend with her. I'm grateful for the things she taught me and I felt wholly loved by her. It was her time to go and I accept that.
Death, after all, is the most natural part of life.
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4 comments:
I was with my Dad when he died. It will be a year on Monday. He had been sick with brain cancer for a long time, and we all knew how it was going to end. I live out of town, so every time I visited him, I told him I loved him, because I fully expected to never see him alive again. I was fortunate enough to make it home when it was clear that time was short.
He lingered through the night, unresponsive, and my Mom and I died a little bit with each labored breath that he took. At the very end, he opened his eyes for the first time in days, shed two tears, and passed. I'm not as spiritual of a person as I used to be, but there was no doubt that it was to be his last breath: like there was a clear change as his spirit left him. It was profound, and painful, and beautiful, all at the same time.
I talked about that night a little with my Mom in the following days, but little since; people that haven't witnessed such a thing cannot possibly understand. I even try not to think about it too much, because when I do, remembering that night consumes me for the next few hours. Like I am doing the moment of my Dad's death a disservice if I don't try to recall every single detail. With the anniversary coming up though, it is starting to be impossible to think of anything else.
I'm very sorry about your grandmother. She sounds like she was a remarkable woman, and quite proud of you. Thank you for sharing these feelings with us. We understand.
Thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful note, Kevin; it means a lot that you took the time to write. Sending you lots of strength and positive thoughts as Monday approaches...
S
I've been catching up; reading past postings. I am so very sorry for your loss, but thank you for sharing your memories. I know your aunt (aka Partner in Crime), and now I feel like I know your grandmother a little bit too.
It was 24 years ago today that my dad died. I was overseas, with a newborn, and had no idea that he was as sick as he was. I didn't have a chance to say good-bye; nothing whispered at a bedside, nor said at a graveside. As painful as parts of your grandmother's death might have been, I hope you can take some comfort in the fact that you were there, telling her how much you cared about her as she left this earth. What a wonderful way to leave--knowing that you were loved so much.
Again, I am so very sorry. I hope the memories you are sharing with us are giving you some comfort too.
Gale, thank you for your note. I'm sending thoughts to you as well during this difficult time (is it just me, or does this time of year make it worse?). Even though it's been 24 years since your dad passed, I can imagine that the pain and sadness remain; dulled, perhaps, but there nonetheless.
Be well...
S
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