Fall is my favorite season. Charge it to my Wisconsin roots, but I love the brisk temps and curling up with a cup of something hot. But what I enjoy most about this time of year is Thanksgiving. Growing up, most kids couldn’t contain their excitement for Christmas. But that has always been the holiday that caused the most stress for me. We were poor and my mother would spend money she didn’t have on gifts she couldn’t afford. To this day, I dont believe in spending a lot of money on gifts, and I am extremely conscious of my cash-flow.
But Thanksgiving was different. It was the one time a year, my entire extended family came together to share a good meal, loud, contagious laughter and memories that never got old no matter how many times you relived them. My grandmother served as head chef. She was an amazing cook, but modest and shy. No matter how big of a fuss we made over each of her dishes, she would always insist that it wasn’t her best effort and we would always beg to differ. Crammed into her tiny, one-bedroom apartment, dinner was served potluck style. We ate hungrily and in silence, with adults claiming the chairs while little ones scattered the floor with paper plates.
It was on Thanksgiving that I would fall in love with my grandmother all over again. She didn’t shell out “I love yous” or clamor for kisses the way some grandmothers did. But on the rare occasion she showed outward affection towards me: when she called me ‘baby’ or touched my face, something inside of me melted like hot butter. I was enamored with her. She was beautiful. Her sepia brown skin was as smooth and delicate as tissue paper and her signature jet black hair with the streak of silver in the front was always well-coiffed. Her nails were always painted and no one could rock a pencil skirt and heels better than that woman. I am proud when I think that the years following her retirement she unapologetically lived a life that finally belonged to her.
My grandmother passed away about a year ago from a respiratory illness. What should have been a fairly simple surgery snowballed into other ailments that finally claimed her life. The doctors told us weeks before she succumbed that she wouldn’t recover.
Waiting was the hardest part. My family camped out in the ICU sleeping upright in uncomfortable chairs, and barely touching catered food delivered by family and friends. We assigned shifts so that at least one family member was always at the hospital in case there were updates on her condition. We were emotionally drained, anxious, confused and angry. And we often took our hurt out on each other. We exchanged feelings of selfishness and guilt and pity. We argued, cried, laughed and sat in silence. We grew used to the frequent code blues; saying silent prayers for the newly bereaved families but relieved that we had been spared at least a little longer.
The last few weeks of my grandmother’s life, I spent a lot of time at her bedside. I ignored the fact that she was sedated. I told her jokes and applied Vaseline to her dry, cracking lips (a result of the breathing tubes). I read her the newspaper and quoted bible verses. And other times I just stood in silence shifting my weight from foot to foot, with tears burning my eyes and a lump in my throat I could not swallow no matter how many times I tried. It was surreal for me to watch this classy, youthful, sexy woman painfully struggle to breathe even with the assistance of several machines.
In the end she went quietly and alone. Just after midnight the nurse on duty entered my grandmother’s room to administer pain medication. When she turned her back to prepare the IV, my grandmother slipped away. A very selfish part of me was angry that my grandmother had not waited for me-for any of us-to be there with her. I continue to carry the shame of my selfishness.
Since her death, I have dreamt very vivid dreams about my grandmother. I wake, crying and praying that her death is a part of the dream. Those first few moments I stir from sleep, I tell myself that there is no way that she can be gone. But the reality is that I am living without one of the most influential people in my life.
As Thanksgiving approaches and I miss my grandmother so much I can hardly breathe I know that for years to come, this holiday will be bittersweet. A major reason my family enjoyed Thanksgiving as much as we did was because of her. Not only did we enjoy her food but we also enjoyed her presence: quiet, confident, reassuring and loving.
This year, thanksgiving is at my house. As I conjure my grandmother’s spirit while I baste the turkey and sauté the trinity I will remember the many years I watched her thin frame stand at the stove effortlessly mixing and frying. And despite my heavy heart I will remember what this holiday has always meant to me: that despite the many challenges I may have experienced over the course of the year, there is always something to be thankful for.
I am thankful for the many private conversations she and I had about family and love and heartbreak. And the way her eyes danced over me with approval and pride as she watched me accomplish things that she had only dreamed about. I am thankful for the way she spoke lessons like riddles; many that I’m just now old enough to understand. And I am thankful that I had the pleasure of enjoying my grandmother for as long as I did.
