FOG

Oh, good and blessed dollins, Happy New Year to you.

Here I am at 9:35am, January 1, 2007.  Wry smile, messy eyebrows, reading glasses perched nose-wise, more grey hair than I had two weeks ago.  I'm pretty sure about that, the grey hair.   I aged  in the past week.  Took a big leap in maturity and another step into full adulthood.  Something I've avoided for 51 years.  Yes, you can delay your development; happily, I might add.

I blame those Fucking Opportunities for Growth ("FOG"); they'll get you every time. 

I knew these days were coming, these days of losing my elders.  The FOG days.  They've been happening for a while, like every four years.  Both of my grandmas seven years ago, lost within a month of one another.  My precious Auntie Tata (Mispronunciation of Anita.  All of our nicknames are mispronunciations.  I am  "Saysee" for Gracie.  Feel free to call me that.), the tender and tough mother of my wild wolf pack of cousins, the Aceboes.  We lost her in 2000.  Six months later, her husband, my Uncle Ray, walked me down the aisle at George's and my wedding.

Losing Auntie, however, was big and in my face.   For the first time in my life, I saw one of my own, prone in a hospital bed, hooked up to everything, tubes coming out of her belly and neck.  That foul but essential respirator device in her mouth.  IV lines jammed into the front of her right hand, bruising her translucent, soft skin.   The monitors would beep with a sick little catchy melody every time one of us in the room began to talk.  She struggled to open her eyes, pedaled her feet, and reached for her wounded belly.  My cousin Gina and I were confused about this - is she trying to join in?  Is she regaining consciousness?  Does this mean she's back and that she's going to get better?

No.

I bent down to my Auntie's sweet face to tell her thank you.  Thank you for loving me so completely, so perfectly.  I also told her that Molly got her driver's permit and that freaks me out.  And, I mentioned that Molly's having a great year academically, and that she's on the soccer team.  I told my Auntie Lily that George's start-up is going great guns and he's traveling all over her beloved Europe, a continent she knew by the back of her (without that IV line) hand.   I told her I am still her rascal, still her brazen one.

Then, I went back to thanking her.  I couldn't stop.

Then, I told her to rest well.  Rest, Auntie Lily, just rest.

I did not say goodbye.  I did not want to grow up that much. 

When we left the hospital, my precious Uncle Ray had the foul respirator removed.  Auntie left her surgery battered body twenty minutes later.   My sister Wendy, George and I were making our way over the San Francisco Oakland Bay Bridge at the moment Auntie passed, 8:53pm.  The San Francisco skyscrapers were lit up for the holidays.  All was calm, all was bright.

Namaste, dear ones.

Love,
Grace

Comments

[elswhere]

Grace, I'm so sorry. This is beautiful.

Wishing you a happier 2007, with fewer FOGs and more JOGs (that would be joyous ones).

[meeta]

Goodbyes are always hard...I think that's why in Bengali we don't say goodbye, we say I'm coming back or I'll see you later, I don't think we believe in goodbyes.

I hope you have a wonderful new year Saysie :)

[Tricia]

And there is one blessing- that you had that wonderful opportunity. It doesn't make it any better, I know.

[Susie]

I just found your site -- love it. I'm relating to what you've written. My Mom, at age 65, came down with pneunomia two years ago, tubes and everything. I was not ready. And then, we lost her. The shock was beyond belief. She died in the Spring, and I remember going to her house, right after she died, and I saw all of her tulips, daisies and roses blooming, and I hoped the earth would just open up and swallow me right there. The pain was the most immense thing I've ever felt. Who did I need to talk to the most? Yeah, and she was gone. How could her flowers still be there -- and yet the world was completely empty. Yes, looking back, I see how I've grown in two years, just because of her death. But I miss her so, so. Thanks for opening this up.

[Katze]

Hugs and prayers for you. I'm very sorry for your losses.

[Comfort Addict]

Grace, that was a beautiful post. Thank you so for writing it.

[Risha]

I'm very sorry for your loss.

I'm thinking about doing bumper stickers: 'Oh No! It's AFGO! Another F*ing Growth Opportunity.'

Think they'll sell?

[jeanne]

beautifully written. I'm so very sorry for such a great loss. It sounds like you were very lucky to have known her.

[serene ambition]

One of my themes at Serene Ambition is that life is a choice, including growing older. But it is always difficult to say goodbye under any circumstance. When I used to life in SFO I learned an important lesson about when someone we love dies. The lesson was that it always leaves a hole in us and the choice we have is what we'll fill it with --- who they were (love) or by default we experience the loss and grief and have another glimpse of our own mortality. I don't think these things happen for our growth (FOG)...but I do think we have a choice about what we learn from them.