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Apr. 29th, 2001 08:14 pmI spoke to my grandmother, Dorothea, on the phone
this afternoon. Her voice is thin and sickly,
wraith-like. And it causes my heart to jump up
hammering into my throat. I'm afraid for her.
She's not eating, or eating very little. And
there isn't much that my father can do to coax
her along as she is stubborn and weak, all at the
same time.
I didn't want to call there today, because I
knew she would be the one to answer the phone,
as she always is. I didn't want to hear the
trembling words come over the line. I didn't
want to feel the helplessness rise like bile in
my mouth, or hear the bitter, greep sap of fear
in my voice. But, I had to. So, I did.
It reminds of when my other grandmother, Helen
who was my mother's mother, was still alive. Her
sickness drove me away, as it made me terribly
uncomfortable to be in the same room with her.
She found my face in a bottle of vodka, only
it had my mother's name affixed to it. I would
stand, shifting from foot to foot, and patiently
wait it out until she moved into a more lucid
phase.
All my remembered life, Helen had been a drunk.
And for all of my remembered life, it made me
vastly queasy. I would watch my own mother's face
as we drove off in the car a visits, watch the
hard lines begin to form. I know Helen drank
because a disease took her ability to have
more children away from her. She wanted more,
but only had two before the sickness and scalpel
struck. I only found this out recently.
She lived but a twenty minute walk away from the
house I grew up in. But, I never went to see her,
never called her on the phone unless ordered.
When I received word that she died, many years
later when I was well established on my own in
Philadelphia, I went cold. I heard my mother's
voice crack over the line, I became so still.
Her funeral was spent with my cousin's daughter
in my lap. Amanda, who thought her auntie was
the keenest thing to be found with all the
numerous toys in my coat pockets. I spoke maybe
only twenty words in two days. I stood aloof from
the rest of my family. I avoided my oldest brother
who, thirteen years older than me, looks down at
me as if I were some unwholesome insect.
Helen's state made me uncomfortable. Her
alcholism made me squeamish. Her diseased and
broken ramblings made me want to turn tail and
run. I loved her, but couldn't stay in proximity.
And now Dorothea, though her infirmity is
different, is causing the same reaction in me.
Which gives me fits as I spent the majority of
my life not knowing her. I'd met her as a young
child, but that was lost in my growing up. At the
age of 21, I met her again. And found most of the
questions regarding my character and being
in her demeanor, face, and hands. Here was where
my flightiness came from. My love of music.
My voice. My carriage and out look on life.
Everything was beginning to become clear.
Now, I'm afraid I'm about to lose it all again.
In my fear, I become stone and turn my face away.
Like the coward that I am.
this afternoon. Her voice is thin and sickly,
wraith-like. And it causes my heart to jump up
hammering into my throat. I'm afraid for her.
She's not eating, or eating very little. And
there isn't much that my father can do to coax
her along as she is stubborn and weak, all at the
same time.
I didn't want to call there today, because I
knew she would be the one to answer the phone,
as she always is. I didn't want to hear the
trembling words come over the line. I didn't
want to feel the helplessness rise like bile in
my mouth, or hear the bitter, greep sap of fear
in my voice. But, I had to. So, I did.
It reminds of when my other grandmother, Helen
who was my mother's mother, was still alive. Her
sickness drove me away, as it made me terribly
uncomfortable to be in the same room with her.
She found my face in a bottle of vodka, only
it had my mother's name affixed to it. I would
stand, shifting from foot to foot, and patiently
wait it out until she moved into a more lucid
phase.
All my remembered life, Helen had been a drunk.
And for all of my remembered life, it made me
vastly queasy. I would watch my own mother's face
as we drove off in the car a visits, watch the
hard lines begin to form. I know Helen drank
because a disease took her ability to have
more children away from her. She wanted more,
but only had two before the sickness and scalpel
struck. I only found this out recently.
She lived but a twenty minute walk away from the
house I grew up in. But, I never went to see her,
never called her on the phone unless ordered.
When I received word that she died, many years
later when I was well established on my own in
Philadelphia, I went cold. I heard my mother's
voice crack over the line, I became so still.
Her funeral was spent with my cousin's daughter
in my lap. Amanda, who thought her auntie was
the keenest thing to be found with all the
numerous toys in my coat pockets. I spoke maybe
only twenty words in two days. I stood aloof from
the rest of my family. I avoided my oldest brother
who, thirteen years older than me, looks down at
me as if I were some unwholesome insect.
Helen's state made me uncomfortable. Her
alcholism made me squeamish. Her diseased and
broken ramblings made me want to turn tail and
run. I loved her, but couldn't stay in proximity.
And now Dorothea, though her infirmity is
different, is causing the same reaction in me.
Which gives me fits as I spent the majority of
my life not knowing her. I'd met her as a young
child, but that was lost in my growing up. At the
age of 21, I met her again. And found most of the
questions regarding my character and being
in her demeanor, face, and hands. Here was where
my flightiness came from. My love of music.
My voice. My carriage and out look on life.
Everything was beginning to become clear.
Now, I'm afraid I'm about to lose it all again.
In my fear, I become stone and turn my face away.
Like the coward that I am.
