Saturday October 15
In the days following
Gram’s death, I was consumed by sadness and engrossed in a deep fog that
followed me everywhere I went and rendered me lost and directionless. I was
going through the motions of life, but I was not present for it. This fog often left me unaware of my surroundings and it kept me
distant - deep in my thoughts and memories. I was lucky, though. I had
wonderful memories of Gram, many of which were funny and would have me smiling,
and at times, laughing out loud – even at the most inappropriate times. I will
always remember what a character she was. Was I grieving her? Absolutely, but I
enjoyed remembering her antics and those many good and funny times. I had lost
her, but I would always have my memories.
But as the grieving
process goes, there were those "first time since” or “last time I did
this, she was here” thoughts that accompanied everything that I did those first
few weeks. Common when someone dies, I believe these thoughts are normal and
integral to the healing process. They diminished as I continued walking through
my “now” life. They would continue through the first year without her, though,
especially during holidays, birthdays, and special events. I knew this from experience.
As much as I
couldn’t imagine my life without Gram, day by day I was beginning to see it.
Life, indeed, did go on, whether I liked it or not. I was alive and I had
things to do. Some of these things – those more immediate - would be different
now, perhaps more significant and definitely more reflective.
On the Saturday
following Gram’s death, I participated in the Walk to End Alzheimer’s. I
didn’t want to go this time, only five days after losing her, but I was
compelled. This year, more than ever, I needed to honor my commitment – the
commitment to walk each year since Gram was diagnosed with this nasty disease. I had participated in the Walk from the early
days when it was held at the Pittsburgh Zoo. A few years ago, it was moved to
North Shore near Heinz Field, which was a much better venue, since it had grown
so much.
Around
that time, I believe, they initiated the Promise Garden, too. This has become
my favorite part of the whole event. Each participant is given a large flower
that represents their reason for walking. The flowers are made of large
fan-like nylon petals attached to a spinner so that the breeze catches and
spins them. The stem is plastic and long with two nylon leaves attached.
Markers are provided for those who choose to write something on their flowers.
The long stem allows for “planting” in the Promise Garden – an exercise that
each walker is asked to do as they approach the starting line. At the end of
the walk, each person can retrieve their flower to take with them. Some,
though, like me, choose to carry their flowers through the walk, unwilling to
let go of them. The Promise Garden, with all of the purple, blue, yellow, and
orange flowers spinning in the breeze, is a majestic sight to behold. It
especially was on this day.
For
me, picking my flower this time was obviously different and doubly
heartbreaking. Traditionally, I picked up a yellow, “caregiver” flower and
wrote In Honor of Gram on it. But
this time, I picked up a purple, “for those who have lost someone,” flower. As
the tears rolled down my face and dripped on to the plastic table cloth below,
I struggled to write, In Memory of Gram.
She
was alive the last time I did this, I thought as I looked out across the large
crowd that had gathered and was working its way toward the huge purple balloon
arch at the starting line. It was a stunning morning. The sun was shining
brightly in the crystal clear, bright blue sky. It was beautiful and warm -
about sixty degrees to start - a perfect day to remember Gram. Thanks, Mum, I
mumbled as I approached the starting line, as if she granted this day to me
specifically.
Over
the years, the Walk has been a way for me to feel purposeful about the disease
– in hopes of eradicating it; supporting others in my own way; and, of course,
to honor Gram. This year, it was particularly so.
Furthermore, participation
has been a solitary and solemn event for me. I didn’t socialize much and I
walked alone. I was there to remember - to remember Gram, reflect on her life
and mine, and to be grateful for her. This year, I avoided talking to
anyone and when I saw people I knew, I ducked away or pretended I didn’t see
them. I wanted to be alone with my
memories.
As I walked through the North
Shore, carrying my purple flower, my life with Gram, again, flashed through my
mind, just as it did a few weeks ago, prior to her death. All the things that
took place over many years – that seemed to be frozen in time for the last
eight – now all hit me as the stark reality of walking in memory of sank in. This made things real and at the same time,
still so incomprehensible. I suddenly saw that old life fall away in pieces
right in front of me and disappear – slowly at first and piece by piece – but
then suddenly it all came down like an old building being imploded and crashing
inward and downward toward the ground. Everything was gone – Gram’s house; the
dinners; the holidays; the Sunday evenings when it was just me, her, and Jude;
the yard, the work – all of it. Gone. It crashed down - unfrozen and real. Of
course, it had been gone for years, but it was as if it was just waiting for
Gram’s death for this huge dose of reality.
None of it happened suddenly, but it felt very sudden that day.
As I continued to walk, my mind
also flashed through the escapades of the years since this disease, reminding
me that it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Scene after scene passed and I would
laugh as they exemplified the foul, funny, outspoken character Gram was. Even
the last coherent words she said to me demonstrated it: “I have to get the hell
out of here.” I’d smile knowing all the people she had touched. I loved sharing
her with others. Her antics were unmatched.
From this day forth, I would be
walking in memory of Gram. Indeed the
life was gone, but I had my memories. I would cherish them forever.
Beautiful tribute. So glad you posted it. Thanks Mike!
ReplyDelete