Observing

I do not know what Nana was showing Princess Commando, a rock? a flower? a speck of fairy dust? But, the little one was captivated.

Today marks the first anniversary of my Nana's passing. I have tried all week to sit down- to put meaning to her absence- to memorialize her life- to put into words the love and admiration I have for her. Every word, and there is a collection of gorgeous expressions which wanted so badly to fit- seemed so small. Suffice it to say- there was so much about her to be adored.

And, how do you observe the anniversary of the passing of a loved one? It is not the same as celebrating a birth day. There is a part of me that does not feel the need to commemorate the day she died. I would rather remember how she lived, anyway. I had quietly, privately said by good-bye long before the day her heart actually stopped beating.

She had Alzheimer's. Alzheimer's is such a cruel bitch in that it steals the essence of your loved one and leaves you with the body- tricking you into believing that somehow, she is still in there somewhere. And there are glimpses- fleeting moments- a flickering of recognition in her eye. She had difficulty remembering names and  associations. But, sometimes when she was greeted by someone who was familiar to her- she would graciously say, "Here is my friend. So nice to see you again."  The last two years of her life were so very painful as we watched the vivacious and self assured  matriarch of our family become a fragile, frightened impostor living in the shell that once housed my Nana's spirit. And even the shell began to to look unfamiliar as medicines and mini strokes made her petite frame swell and her eyes droop.

 I had a moment the summer before she passed- months before she was hospitalized and physically failing- when I realized things would never be the same. It was warm and I was in the early months of my pregnancy with The Baby. I was resting on the couch in the front room trying to escape the heat when the unexpected scent of basil softly, warmly floated in through the front windows. Perhaps a neighbor had planted some; but, I had never caught the scent before and I haven't smelled it since. Basil always reminds me of my Nana. She had a garden when we were children where she grew concord grapes, raspberries (black and red), mint and basil. She always added fresh basil to our Sunday salad, which no one in our family has been able to replicate- probably because she mixed it with her hands. With the warmth of the fragrant basil wafting in, came a flood of emotions wringing my heart- forcing tears of mourning. A vision of Nana in the kitchen (talking with us as she prepared the Sunday meal with such ease and with such magnificent results) and then a vision of the kitchen empty, quiet, still. The image of the empty kitchen felt like death. As the sadness welled, I felt The Baby move, the beginning of her fluttering and flitting and I knew that somehow I must incorporate Emily (my great grandmother's name, my Nana's name, my mother's name) into the baby's name. She became Violet Emily- in honor of all of the great Emilys that came before her. It gave me a sense of peace in saying good bye.

Violet was born one week before Nana died. I do regret that Violet was not able to meet her. My mother said that she brought a picture of The Baby to the hospital and my Nana acknowledged her by saying, "Beautiful baby." Nana's sparkle is definitely evident in Violet- both of them love to dance. So, that is what we did tonight to observe this somber occasion. I scooped up The Baby in my arms and we danced.

Thank You, Papa

My Papa

When we were younger, we would ask Papa about "the War." He never elaborated on the heavy stuff. He told us silly stories about (and forgive me because I was a child and I do not remember the exact location) peeing in troughs which were set up in the streets in Europe as urinals. "Can you imagine peeing in the street with pretty women walking by?" He would ask us.

I must have been about 8 or 9 years old when he showed us his army trunk in the attic; and I asked bluntly, "Did you ever kill anyone?" He did not answer. But, tears welled in his eyes and I could see his throat tighten. He composed himself and changed the subject. I was afraid to ask him anything else because I did not want to hurt him or to stir up difficult memories.

It was not until the onset of Alzheimer's that he started to let more of the story unfold to my mother who then recounted it to us. H chose my Papa's army hat, part of his dress uniform, to feature in his Social Studies Archives project in September. It was then that I learned that my Papa was in the 184th Blackhawk division of the United States Army. He had fought in both WWII and the Pacific War. He was a scout in Germany. He said that the scouts were sent ahead of the rest of the division to seek out the enemy's location. He maintained that the scouts were never shot at because the Germans did not want to reveal their location to the rest of the army too soon. My Papa was in Germany when Hitler's prisoners of war were released. He was later sent to the Philippines during the Pacific War to guard the prisoners of war there. When he was stationed there, he found his brother, Chuck, whom he did not even know was also stationed on the island as a ship repairman for the Navy. Since his memory is stuck in certain places because of the Alzheimer's, it is a story that runs on an endless loop, when we visit with him. He finds great amusement from it.

My Papa is an exquisitely sensitive man. He has always been the quintessential gentleman. I can not imagine how anyone manages to maintain such goodness and civility while carrying the gravity of what he experienced when he was such a young man. He was a remarkable patriarch- balancing discipline, guidance, culture, intellect, love, forgiveness and faith. A once great conversationalist, Alzheimer's has made this raconteur quiet. My aunt worries that he is too quiet. The alternative is that he would be ravaged by madness (as my Nana was in her last year) or dead. And, for Christ's sake he is 85 years old. The man bore the brunt of my Nana's lashing out when she became confused, paranoid and irrational in the throes of her Alzheimer's; he lost his Honey Bunny (my Nana) in February; broke his pelvis dancing with my Aunt at her retirement party in June; and was abruptly moved from his family home to an assisted living center in July. And when he is brought to visit with us, he still manages to wonder over his great grandchildren and see the beauty in all people. I believe he deserves the right to be quiet.

Of course, I am grateful for his years of service to our country. But more than that I am grateful for his years of dedication to this family.