From the category archives:

Memories

I’m Sorry

by Megan on November 2, 2011

When I was fifteen, in May of 2004, Granny was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had smoked most of her life and had only recently quit, only to find out that she was going to have to start fighting hard.

My parents, siblings, and I lived in Tennessee, while the rest of my family lived in Florida. We immediately made the trip down to see Granny. When we returned home, we received a call that my granny had a stroke. She had been sitting at her kitchen table planning my cousin’s 20th birthday (June 1st). One minute, she was talking; the next minute, she wasn’t even sure who she was or what she was doing. She didn’t even know exactly who my Pawpaw was, a man she had been married to since she was seventeen.

When we received the call, we basically headed right back to Florida. Granny was in the hospital at this point, and she was recognizing some people. When we went in her room, she recognized everyone in the family. Everyone but me. She couldn’t remember my name. Pawpaw kept saying, “Megan,” but Granny kept calling me “Vicki,” which was her niece’s name. Even after saying my name, she somehow couldn’t repeat it. I had a hard time holding back tears, but I knew she recognized who I was, and she was getting so frustrated because she couldn’t say my name. She started crying and said, “Ohh! I know you. I know your name!” Eventually, she finally said my name and she was thrilled that she said it.

It was hard watching her struggle. She was very child-like in those moments. Once she could say my name, it was as if her demeanor changed a bit. She looked happier. Dad immediately decided that we would move back to Florida. Inside, I was struggling with this idea because I didn’t want to leave my friends. I think Granny knew it would be hard on me, because as soon as Dad told her we were moving back to Florida, she looked directly at me and said, “I’m sorry, Megan.”

Just moments before, she couldn’t even say my name; in that moment, though, she somehow knew me and knew what I was feeling.

Granny had a stroke because she had a brain tumor–something doctors didn’t see in previous scans. In the next couple months, life was a blur of moving to Florida, leaving friends, watching my Granny get better and then worse. Eventually, though she had chemo and radiation, the cancer moved to other parts of her body. There were days that I thought she could fight through it, and there were days where I prayed for her to feel no more pain.

Granny passed away on August 6, 2004. I have many fond memories of her, but one of my clearest memories is of her apologizing to me while she was in so much pain.

And something I wish I would’ve said in that moment: Granny, you have nothing to be sorry for.

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Tomato Sandwiches

by Megan on June 29, 2011

One of my favorite things to do when Granny was alive was cook with her. I remember her phonecalls to tell me that she was making chicken & dumplins. I’d run next door and she’d cover the counter in flour. I was always in charge of flattening the biscuits, and she even let me drop them into the boiling water. I loved her chicken & dumplins, and I wish I would have remembered her “recipe” more clearly. (She never really followed recipes–she just knew how to cook.) Of course, I suppose I assumed I would be able to call her up when I got married one day to say, “Granny, I have no idea what to make for dinner. Tell me how to make your chicken & dumplins.” That will never happen, though, so I’ll have to try to remember the recipe on my own.

I think the hardest part of her not being here anymore is that I can’t call her up when I’m going through a rough patch to say, “tell me what to do.” It’s selfish because I know she’s much happier where she’s at, hand-in-hand with my Pawpaw, but she was always the one to give me guidance. Instead, I now think, what would Granny suggest I do in this situation? That’s how I’ve lived my life since she passed away.

Granny and I used to make the stuffing/dressing together for Thanksgiving. We’d toast the bread in the oven and tear it apart over a huge storage bin. (We made a lot of stuffing!) We’d add the eggs, salt, broth, cornbread, and everything else that makes stuffing so delicious. Mix it with your hands, she’d remind me. Even though it would cover my hands in soggy bread crumbs, I’d do it because I knew that love was the secret ingredient, as she always said. It was always a hit at Thanksgiving lunch/dinner. A few years before Granny passed away, she let me make the stuffing by myself. She reminded me of everything that went in it, but I did everything by myself while she peeled potatoes and baked pies and made the turkey. I’m glad she let me do it by myself that year. Since she’s passed away, I’ve only made it a few times (with my aunt reminding me of everything that needs to go in it), but it just never tastes the same.

I loved cooking with Granny. One of her favorite and easiest things to eat, though, was a tomato & miracle whip sandwich. Yesterday, Husband and I picked two tomatoes out of the garden, and as soon as we got inside, I sliced one. The warm tomato would have been perfect for one of Granny’s tomato sandwiches, and I wish she were here so that I could give her one. Instead, I’m going to go home this afternoon and cut into the second tomato. I’m going to take two slices of bread and cover them in miracle whip and add the tomato. Then I’m going to sit back and relax and send a message to my aunt to remind me how to make Granny’s chicken & dumplins.

And I’m going to say a quiet thank you to my Granny for reminding me that love is the secret ingredient to life.

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Forgetting to Remember

by Megan on June 23, 2011

I see them in everything–the fallen leaves; the warm rays of the sun; the breeze blowing through the trees; my own eyes when I look into the mirror. It’s hard not to when they were such a big part of the first sixteen years of my life. Sometimes, it makes me smile as I remember jumping into the leaves she raked up into big piles every fall. Sometimes, it makes me sad that there never seem to be enough leaves anymore. Sometimes, it makes me smile if I forget to put sugar in my tea, remembering that he had a passion for unsweet tea. Sometimes, it makes me sad that I’ll never be able to make him a glass of unsweet tea again.

This time seven years ago, I was watching my granny deal with her diagnosis of cancer. She was only diagnosed at the end of May, and at this point, we were all positive she would beat it. If this were 2004, though, I’d be holding her lifeless hand in just less than two month’s time. It all went so quickly, yet time moved in slow motion. Watching her struggle every day was difficult for me. I was only fifteen at the time, and she was only in her fifties. It was painful to watch her struggle for breath as her lungs continued to fill. I remember her losing the sparkle in her blue eyes at one point, and I knew it was going to be over soon. Before she died, the sparkle came back, and she was ready to go. Happy, even. How could I be sad for her departure when she was glowing with so much happiness? She passed away within days.

I held his hand at her memorial. She told me to be there for him, her husband–her best friend, my pawpaw. The next several months were a blur. Life seemed to keep going, though I was sure it should have stopped at some point. I turned sixteen and he gave me a card–my first birthday card without her name signed to it. I remember watching him from a distance, even though I was sitting right next to him. He went through his normal routine, and we tried to make the transition easy for him after losing his wife of forty-or-so years. I could see sadness growing in his eyes, though. We moved home soon, and he came to visit with my cousins. He was sick, but it was just the flu. We thought it was just the flu. That was until we had to rush him to the hospital. Before he left, he said “I’ll be back soon, babe.” That was the last time I saw him. He died from congestive heart failure, though the doctors called it a broken heart.

I couldn’t be sad. I was more angry than sad. I was still mourning the loss of my granny, and now my pawpaw was gone, too. It was too much to handle, but I had to be strong. I felt like I failed my granny by not keeping my pawpaw protected, but what did I expect? He didn’t want death to do them part. He wanted to be with her in life and death. And so he was. I had to feel peace that they were together once again and will now be together eternally.

I don’t dream of them often. I always thought it was because they were visiting the dreams of people who needed them more–their son, my dad; my mom; my siblings and cousins. I promised to be the strength for them, so I always tell myself that they’ll come to my dreams when I need them most.

I want to tell their story. Their story of love and life and death. I want to tell how it effected me, but I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with it. I have a hard time deciding where to begin. I have a hard time remembering all the details of their deaths when I’ve spent so many years trying to forget. I have a hard time remembering they’re gone.

I’m on my knees. I need them now.

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Looking Back: Summer 2010

by Megan on January 11, 2011

Winter is not my favorite season, though I don’t hate it. Sometimes, I’m just so ready for it to end because I want more sunshine and warm weather. I was looking through photos yesterday, and I came across some of my favorite shots from last summer, and they’ve been a good reminder of the life that summer contains.