The Long Road Home

**Edited Below

For the second time in three weeks, I am going to be traveling the 7 hour drive back to my hometown.  The last time was for my baby shower.  When I was there, I had all kinds of feelings and I wrote this post for (the blog exchange) about embarking on this journey as a motherless mother.

Losing my mother, watching her die of cancer, was one of the hardest things that I ever did.  There was so much, there is so much, that to go over it all here and now would be akin to me just pulling off my bandages and showing you the open wounds.  Not too many people are up for that.  There’s not enough distance yet.  Not enough metaphor.  There’s no charming sepia color to the images, they’re all still too vivid, Technicolor.  So, as time washes in and out like tides and wears down all the sharp edges, I’ll wait it out.  Show it to you when it looks like beach glass.  Smooth and beautiful.

One of the less grisly and more ironical aspects of the whole journey, though, is that both my mother’s parents are still alive.  They are 82.  They have been married for over 60 years.  Drive a little further into Ironyland and you’ll note my grandmother’s dementia.  Which began somewhat slowly as confusion and misplaced words and progressed to the point that she wasn’t fully aware of what was happening around her when my mother died.  The irony for The Little Sister and I being, of course, that although she’s alive, she is no longer the bearer of the family history.  In the lineage of mothers and daughters, she’s been a placeholder.  The questions that we never thought to ask my mother—about her childhood, her pregnancies, our childhoods—all those my grandmother would’ve answered.  If she could remember. 

Last night I got word that my grandmother was in intensive care, with bleeding in her brain.  She is not expected to live.  They are giving her palliative care, making sure she’s comfortable.  It feels like when it’s over, we’ll have lost her twice.

So, I’ll be traveling the 7 hours back to my hometown.  To be a comfort and a support to my grandfather.  To say goodbye to a beautiful woman, a part of my history, a part of my life.  For a minute, The Little Sister said she felt like we were losing the last link to our mother. 

Later on she changed her mind.  She said this:
“Gramma isn’t really our last link.  There are still links to mom living in my son and in your daughter.  She’s in us and she’s in them too.”

And I thought:
Ain’t that something? 
So’s Gram.  And her mom.  And her mom.  All the way back up the tree.  My daughter comes from a long line of strong, awesome women.  Maybe I’ll do a little more documentation than my mom did, just so she has something to hold onto when I’m gone.  She'll get to know my mother, her mother and her own self that way.  Through my tangible words that tell the story of her history from before she was in it. 

I'm talking about something other than this blog, if you can dig it.  Something that she can squirrel away or leave out or keep under her pillow at night. 

Something that--you know--doesn't have so many swear words in it.

**Edited to add: Thank you so much for your well wishes.  My grandmother passed away today at about 4pm.  Thanks again for your emails and comments.

Comments

[slouching mom]

Oh, T. I am sorry. And when you're this pregnant...

My mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was about as far along as you. She's fine now, but wow, at the time, so tough.

Oh, and the "beach glass" metaphor? Beautiful.

[Mrs. Chicken]

So sorry about your gram. Especially now. Travel safe.

My dad died of cancer when I was five months along with the Poo. It is so hard to bear that loss.

Many blessings to you and yours.

[Jaime]

I am so sorry you are going through this.

My MIL passed away on my due date with my daughter. I didnt have the baby for another 2 weeks. Even now, I am so sad that Grace will never know her Grandma Katy who held on as long as she could waiting for her to arrive.

But she does live on. In my daughter. In expressions and mannerisms. And personality. Its amazing and comforting.

[julie]

I lost my grandma to Alzheimers 3 years ago. We had convinced ourselves we had already mostly let her go, that this was just a blessed relief for her and the passing of her shell since she was, as you so eloquently put it, now just a placeholder of her former self.

Imagine our shock layered onto our grief when we realized we were losing her again in a still more painful way. It's a cruel and deceptive way to lose someone; losing them bit by bit so you cling to the little bit you have left so hard that when that, too, is gone you're still keening.

I'm so sorry. My prayers are with you.

[Much More Than A Mom]

Aw I'm so sorry about your Grandma. It's true - they live on in our children - but that doesn't make it any easier. Travel safely.

[Kelly]

"So, as time washes in and out like tides and wears down all the sharp edges, I’ll wait it out. Show it to you when it looks like beach glass. Smooth and beautiful." That's lovely, truly lovely.

Safe journey...

[The Little Sister]

It's weird that last year at this exact time of year when I was just about as pregnant as you, we lost my FIL. The day I told my students that I was going to be absent for yet another funeral of sorts, another teacher heard one of them say: Like she needs to deal with THAT right now. That's how I feel for you. The travel, the grief, the sleep deprivation, the missing links and lost stories, and the list could go on.

I'll be happy to see you. Godspeed.

[mamatulip]

The more I read you and get to know you, the more I feel connected to you. And I mean that in the least stalker-ish way possible. So much of this post rings true for me; what you said about your wounds, and about the things you would have wanted to ask your grandmother about your mother and your family history, hit home for me. Hard.

I'm so sorry to hear about your grandmother. I'll be thinking of you, sending you and your family calm and peace. And -- if you need someone to listen, to talk to, don't hesitate. I'm here.

[Kristen]

It just down right sucks.

[mothergoosemouse]

I'm so sorry. It must be so painful to watch someone you love turn into someone you don't know, someone who doesn't know you.

Be safe on your journey.

[Dawn]

I'm so sorry for your loss.

[MetroDad]

I'm so sorry for your loss. Deepest condolences to you and your family. This was a beautiful post. Best wishes to you.

[mamatulip]

Oh, T, I'm sorry. I didn't see this update until just now.

My thoughts are with you and your family.

[cce]

New here but wanted to say I'm sorry for your losses...it seems like you've had more than your fair share of grief recently.
cce@www.madmarriage.com

[canape]

I'm so sorry for your loss. Both times. You really did lose her twice, and with my grandmother, I remember the second time being most difficult.

Lots of love to you and your family.

[Shannon]

I have not had a chance to view your blog for a few days, I am sorry I am late on my condolences. I hope things are going as smoothly as possible. Thoughts and prayers with you tonight!

[TB]

I'm so sorry. My mother's mother has outlived her as well and although she suffers from dementia now, it was such a comfort to still have her in my life after my mother was gone. I understand your loss and I hope you are finding some peace.