Not a Tear
She didn’t deserve death, but it was her time to die. I miss her, even now. She is my great-grandmother, and one of the most important people involved in my life.
We called her Gommie. We called her that because she was too young to be a grandmother when my mother was born. It was a form of ‘grandma’ and ‘mommy’. I remember she used to consume many apples and about twenty different kinds of pills. They were all shapes and sizes, some clear, some larger than my fingers. In the living room lay a small rocking chair that I used to rock in when I was younger. Gommie and I used to make little crafts, like dancers out of wooden spoons or candy canes made out of beads and pipe cleaners. She was always so kind to me, with her eyes magnified by massive prescription glasses.
I don’t remember when she was diagnosed. All I remember was that I rode in my mother’s car with Heather. I sat in the left-hand seat in the back, the one that wasn’t connected to the rest of the back seat. My mother explained to me that Gommie had cancer. It didn’t register to me at the tie how important it was.
Over time the cancer spread throughout her body, slowly consuming her from the inside out. It grew and grew, and she got sicker and sicker. She was sent to the hospital a few times and was finally placed in Hospice care. My mother kept her in the guest room, taking care of her and such. That’s the one room in our house that I refuse to go into. I have never in my whole life watched ‘Mr. Ed’ or ‘Touched by an Angel’ or made so many Jesus cards for kids in Africa as I did when Gommie was sick.
The cancer progressed until Gommie dwindled down into a coma. By that time my mother had moved her into the dining room. My grandmother would come and sing to her, talk to her, anything to get her beloved mother out of the coma.
I couldn’t bear it. I watched my grandmother cry, watched my mother worry endlessly, watched the world around me slowly start to crumble. So many tears were shed. Soon I found myself packing my things. I couldn’t stay there while Gommie died. My mother took me to my Aunt Jessie’s house in Sedro-Wooly. It was a nice, woodsy place away from the outside world.
I would read and sing to the four dogs that dwelled in the homes in and around my aunt’s property. I would walk with the dogs to my fort in the woods next to their house. It was just a few stumps that had fallen over, but it was mine.
I stayed there for about two weeks. Then, my mother called. She told me Gommie had ‘passed on’. All I could say was “Oh”. It’s not that I didn’t care, for I cared very much. I already knew she was dead, even before she called me. Gommie was 95 when she died January 1, 2006.
I remember the funeral. I looked at Gommie’s face one last time. It was stretched and twisted in an attempt at a smile. I just looked down into the box and realized; this is not the face of my Gommie. I realized I would never see her face again. Only the stretched, twisted imposter. It’s only been about two years since her death, but I’m starting to forget things. I’m starting to forget her face, what happened and when, the order of events. If it weren’t for pictures of Gommie, all wrinkly and old, I would remember her face as the stretched, twisted one. The image will stay in my mind forever. Even now I can picture it.
Death is a part of life. It’s something we can neither control nor avoid. When you die, you don’t come back. You can’t see the faces of your loved ones, until they die too. All I remember is fuzzy and faded. Yet not a tear was shed.
We called her Gommie. We called her that because she was too young to be a grandmother when my mother was born. It was a form of ‘grandma’ and ‘mommy’. I remember she used to consume many apples and about twenty different kinds of pills. They were all shapes and sizes, some clear, some larger than my fingers. In the living room lay a small rocking chair that I used to rock in when I was younger. Gommie and I used to make little crafts, like dancers out of wooden spoons or candy canes made out of beads and pipe cleaners. She was always so kind to me, with her eyes magnified by massive prescription glasses.
I don’t remember when she was diagnosed. All I remember was that I rode in my mother’s car with Heather. I sat in the left-hand seat in the back, the one that wasn’t connected to the rest of the back seat. My mother explained to me that Gommie had cancer. It didn’t register to me at the tie how important it was.
Over time the cancer spread throughout her body, slowly consuming her from the inside out. It grew and grew, and she got sicker and sicker. She was sent to the hospital a few times and was finally placed in Hospice care. My mother kept her in the guest room, taking care of her and such. That’s the one room in our house that I refuse to go into. I have never in my whole life watched ‘Mr. Ed’ or ‘Touched by an Angel’ or made so many Jesus cards for kids in Africa as I did when Gommie was sick.
The cancer progressed until Gommie dwindled down into a coma. By that time my mother had moved her into the dining room. My grandmother would come and sing to her, talk to her, anything to get her beloved mother out of the coma.
I couldn’t bear it. I watched my grandmother cry, watched my mother worry endlessly, watched the world around me slowly start to crumble. So many tears were shed. Soon I found myself packing my things. I couldn’t stay there while Gommie died. My mother took me to my Aunt Jessie’s house in Sedro-Wooly. It was a nice, woodsy place away from the outside world.
I would read and sing to the four dogs that dwelled in the homes in and around my aunt’s property. I would walk with the dogs to my fort in the woods next to their house. It was just a few stumps that had fallen over, but it was mine.
I stayed there for about two weeks. Then, my mother called. She told me Gommie had ‘passed on’. All I could say was “Oh”. It’s not that I didn’t care, for I cared very much. I already knew she was dead, even before she called me. Gommie was 95 when she died January 1, 2006.
I remember the funeral. I looked at Gommie’s face one last time. It was stretched and twisted in an attempt at a smile. I just looked down into the box and realized; this is not the face of my Gommie. I realized I would never see her face again. Only the stretched, twisted imposter. It’s only been about two years since her death, but I’m starting to forget things. I’m starting to forget her face, what happened and when, the order of events. If it weren’t for pictures of Gommie, all wrinkly and old, I would remember her face as the stretched, twisted one. The image will stay in my mind forever. Even now I can picture it.
Death is a part of life. It’s something we can neither control nor avoid. When you die, you don’t come back. You can’t see the faces of your loved ones, until they die too. All I remember is fuzzy and faded. Yet not a tear was shed.