***Midday Update***
Soooo I've had a headache for the past two weeks as well as a sinus infection and sore throat that hurts so bad that I keep waking up in the middle of the night feeling like I'm choking. Now I found a remedy or rather a short term solution in the form of Nyquil. To prevent my liver from dying a painful death, I take it every couple of days. Yesterday was that day.
I had my daughter last night so to prevent the Nyquil from going to waste (we know her sleep habits), I ran her ragged all yesterday. She went to school then we went to the playground, ran to the store, did suicides up and down the street...She was tired by 5pm. She almost drifted off, and to prevent that I gave her a cup of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream. She was back to coke level intensity in no time.
Eight o'clock came and I gave her a bath and put her to sleep. I took my Nyquil and went to bed right after. At precisely 2:04AM I heard someone asking for a banana in between rapping the first two lines of Mama Said Knock You Out. "Can I have a banana? Don't call it a comeback, I been here for years..." I thought she was talking in her sleep, but she was wide awake. "No, you can't have a banana. Go to sleep. Stop rapping."
The next thing I know, she teleported from her bed to mine and I felt her feet standing on my chest. It took everything in me not to hurt her. I vaguely remember what happened after that. I remember unlocking my phone and handing it to her. I woke up every few minutes to find her watching a different show through the Netflix app. I finally got up around 5. I made her breakfast and just sat in silence at the table.
I kept staring at the clock on the stove. "Baby step to 8:00. Baby step to 8:00." I was counting down the hours until I could take her to school. I get her to school and I keep telling myself that all will be well when she gets out at 11:30 because she'll come home and take the nap of naps. I don't even bother trying to fall asleep during that time. I don't want to oversleep and live up to the stereotype. Besides, I had to make her pizza to take to the class picnic at noon anyway. But when she gets home...she's gonna sleep.
I get to the school at 11:30 and I don't see her in the circle singing with the other kids. My first thought was that someone kidnapped my kid. The teacher points to the corner. My daughter is knocked out on the floor. "She fell asleep as soon as you left. Normally we would've woke her up, but when you said she'd been up since two, I just felt bad for her and decided to let her sleep. She should be well rested now for whatever activities you have planned this afternoon."
[Insert every curse word you can think of]
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Zion Elementary School
Yesterday was my daughter's first day of school. I was running around like it was prom. I wanted it to be a smooth transition so I convinced Co-Parent (CP) to dedicate the entire weekend solely to the child: breakfast and lunch in her honor, the playground, and even Chuck E Cheese. My favorite, however, was Back to School shopping at Target where I broke out my phone and started playing the Andy Williams song (from the Staples commercial back in the day) "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." People stared at me, CP disowned me, and I did everything but glide around the store on the back of the cart.
No one was going to steal that moment from me. No one! CP asked, "Why are you so excited? How is this any different than when she went to daycare six months ago?" Infidel. Daycare, like this life, is temporary. Daycare can be taken away. As much as it cost me, it almost was. But public school...that's different. There are laws in place to protect my right to send my child to school. No one can deny me this one. It's guaranteed. Public school is Zion!
When I was little my grandmother used to drag me around to her Senior Club "field trips." There was always some person who would burst into an impromptu testimony. We were in Shoney's one day and the clam chowder must've filled this woman with the Holy Spirit. "My right ankle been bothering me, but that's alright because when I get to Zion...and I sit at the feet of the Master, my ankle won't trouble me NO MORE. They ain't got no gout in heaven, THANK YOU JESUS!" Everyone kept eating as if she hadn't said a thing.
Well, I stayed home for almost three years with my daughter. Life for me "ain't been no crystal stair." If anything, there were times when it was more like falling down a flight of crystal stairs. You've read my posts; it was challenging at times to say the least. I made it through by looking forward to my own personal Zion. On any given day I could've been that woman at Shoney's:
"You know my daughter had a meltdown in the car today and started throwing shoes at me from the backseat like they were ninja stars. The first one caught me off guard and almost made me crash the car on the Beltway. But when she gets to Zion Elementary School...and I look in her teacher's face...there will be no more thoughts of safe dropping her at the fire station...the principal will say, 'Well done thy good and faithful servant!'"
Guess what, y'all. I made it to Zion! Believe it or not, the emotion that overwhelmed me wasn't relief, but hope. I joke about her being a gremlin, but that's my baby. She started her first day of school and now I get to see if all of that time I spent with her pays off. Did I prepare her properly? Even if I did, this milestone signifies a change in my role. It's now my responsibility to cater my knowledge and experience to her needs. Yesterday was her first step on the path to success. I can't walk it for her. Some things I can't even warn her about; she has to learn for herself. I have a little less than 15 years to teach her to fly against the gravity of a world intent on pulling her down.
I'm up to it, and strangely enough I'll miss the days when I never knew what direction a shoe was going to come from.
No one was going to steal that moment from me. No one! CP asked, "Why are you so excited? How is this any different than when she went to daycare six months ago?" Infidel. Daycare, like this life, is temporary. Daycare can be taken away. As much as it cost me, it almost was. But public school...that's different. There are laws in place to protect my right to send my child to school. No one can deny me this one. It's guaranteed. Public school is Zion!
When I was little my grandmother used to drag me around to her Senior Club "field trips." There was always some person who would burst into an impromptu testimony. We were in Shoney's one day and the clam chowder must've filled this woman with the Holy Spirit. "My right ankle been bothering me, but that's alright because when I get to Zion...and I sit at the feet of the Master, my ankle won't trouble me NO MORE. They ain't got no gout in heaven, THANK YOU JESUS!" Everyone kept eating as if she hadn't said a thing.
Well, I stayed home for almost three years with my daughter. Life for me "ain't been no crystal stair." If anything, there were times when it was more like falling down a flight of crystal stairs. You've read my posts; it was challenging at times to say the least. I made it through by looking forward to my own personal Zion. On any given day I could've been that woman at Shoney's:
"You know my daughter had a meltdown in the car today and started throwing shoes at me from the backseat like they were ninja stars. The first one caught me off guard and almost made me crash the car on the Beltway. But when she gets to Zion Elementary School...and I look in her teacher's face...there will be no more thoughts of safe dropping her at the fire station...the principal will say, 'Well done thy good and faithful servant!'"
Guess what, y'all. I made it to Zion! Believe it or not, the emotion that overwhelmed me wasn't relief, but hope. I joke about her being a gremlin, but that's my baby. She started her first day of school and now I get to see if all of that time I spent with her pays off. Did I prepare her properly? Even if I did, this milestone signifies a change in my role. It's now my responsibility to cater my knowledge and experience to her needs. Yesterday was her first step on the path to success. I can't walk it for her. Some things I can't even warn her about; she has to learn for herself. I have a little less than 15 years to teach her to fly against the gravity of a world intent on pulling her down.
I'm up to it, and strangely enough I'll miss the days when I never knew what direction a shoe was going to come from.
Friday, August 23, 2013
No More Daycare Tuition!!!
Homegoing Celebration For My Daughter's Daycare Tuition
Prayer.......................................................................................................................Ordale J Allen
Scripture...................................................................................................................Ordale J Allen
Malachai 3:8 "Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me"
Selection...................................................................................................................Daycare Choir
"The Wheels on the Payment Screen Go 'Round and 'Round"
Words of Remembrance.........................................................................................Family and Friends
Obituary:
Daycare tuition was with us but for a short while, yet his presence was always felt. He employed two teachers, two aides, a director as well as an assistant director. He is survived by a son and daughter (Before and Aftercare Tuition), and a host of extended friends and family.
If tomorrow starts without me
and a payment is not due
I hope that you are happy
For you are now in public school
We'll meet again one day my friend
in this life or the next
You'll go to camp when the school year ends
Just wait til you write that check.
Interment will take place immediately following the service at the Bank of America in downtown DC. There will be a repast on April 15th on IRS Form 1040, Line 48 Deduction for Childcare Expenses.
And It's Done.
And it is done.
I woke up three times last night from the extreme sensation that someone was sitting on my chest while simultaneously strangling me and pouring flour up my nose. Headache, sinus infection, something that feels like strep throat, and this tightness in my chest...those are the major symptoms. Dizziness, nausea, and the other stuff are riding the bench on the team that's trying to beat me down. I guess you can call it stress. I'm built for it, so I just call it Thursday.
It got really bad though during my grandmother's eulogy. I spent most of the week trying to figure out what to say. I didn't know how to sum up her life, but I knew I had to say something. As the time got closer and the line of people got shorter, I knew I had to come up with something...so I just winged it. People kept saying how nice and friendly she was. One person even said, "She always had a pleasant remark." I lost it at that point. How dare they take my grandmother's name in vain. lol
I got up and said that I understood why they said what they did. It was the house of the Lord after all. Still, I felt they were doing a disservice however well intentioned. Talking about Louise Allen without mentioning "Grandma" was like talking about Clark Kent without mentioning Superman. She was Superman to me, and Grandma was not nice. Grandma did not mince words, and she would tell you about yourself through a tongue that was so sharp it could cut down a mountain.
I told a few stories, the same ones that I've already told on here. People laughed, people clapped, and then I sat down. The stress wasn't completely gone, but I put a few of its players on injured reserved. I felt better after I left the cemetery. I even started laughing at one point and played the last voicemail that I still have on my phone through the speakerphone. It was of her saying that she may not answer when I call her, but she's still around and to come on by. Even out of context, it still fit the circumstance. That relieved even more stress. Still, not all of it...but enough.
Enough to immediately leave the funeral and break open my shirt to reveal my own "S" on my chest. I had parent orientation at my daughter's new school an hour after the funeral. I went there, then back to the gathering at my mother's house. Tomorrow...chaperoning a trip to the zoo for my daughter's last day in daycare. Then it's all about her this weekend as I try to ease the transition to her new school...Next week, we're on half-day schedule so I'm doing drop off and picking right back up 3 hours later. Then on to cleaning my grandmother's house out some more (I have to sell it).
Rest? Sleep?
I'll try to squeeze it in around October.
I woke up three times last night from the extreme sensation that someone was sitting on my chest while simultaneously strangling me and pouring flour up my nose. Headache, sinus infection, something that feels like strep throat, and this tightness in my chest...those are the major symptoms. Dizziness, nausea, and the other stuff are riding the bench on the team that's trying to beat me down. I guess you can call it stress. I'm built for it, so I just call it Thursday.
It got really bad though during my grandmother's eulogy. I spent most of the week trying to figure out what to say. I didn't know how to sum up her life, but I knew I had to say something. As the time got closer and the line of people got shorter, I knew I had to come up with something...so I just winged it. People kept saying how nice and friendly she was. One person even said, "She always had a pleasant remark." I lost it at that point. How dare they take my grandmother's name in vain. lol
I got up and said that I understood why they said what they did. It was the house of the Lord after all. Still, I felt they were doing a disservice however well intentioned. Talking about Louise Allen without mentioning "Grandma" was like talking about Clark Kent without mentioning Superman. She was Superman to me, and Grandma was not nice. Grandma did not mince words, and she would tell you about yourself through a tongue that was so sharp it could cut down a mountain.
I told a few stories, the same ones that I've already told on here. People laughed, people clapped, and then I sat down. The stress wasn't completely gone, but I put a few of its players on injured reserved. I felt better after I left the cemetery. I even started laughing at one point and played the last voicemail that I still have on my phone through the speakerphone. It was of her saying that she may not answer when I call her, but she's still around and to come on by. Even out of context, it still fit the circumstance. That relieved even more stress. Still, not all of it...but enough.
Enough to immediately leave the funeral and break open my shirt to reveal my own "S" on my chest. I had parent orientation at my daughter's new school an hour after the funeral. I went there, then back to the gathering at my mother's house. Tomorrow...chaperoning a trip to the zoo for my daughter's last day in daycare. Then it's all about her this weekend as I try to ease the transition to her new school...Next week, we're on half-day schedule so I'm doing drop off and picking right back up 3 hours later. Then on to cleaning my grandmother's house out some more (I have to sell it).
Rest? Sleep?
I'll try to squeeze it in around October.
Monday, August 19, 2013
...Long Live The Queen
I feel obligated to write something about my grandmother, but I have no idea what to write. She passed four days ago and I've been writing and deleting posts since then. For once it isn't cliched to say that words can't express what I feel.
My grandmother used to send me money in the mail. That's random, and I don't know why I'm writing about this. It just popped in my head and made me cry when I thought about it, so I'm "thinking out loud." I was in college and I'd get a letter, which I knew was from her because she had really bad penmanship. She also didn't care what greeting card she picked up. She just needed something to go in the envelope.
So I'd open up the letter and inside would be a card that said, "Congratulations Graduate" and inside she would scratch out the pre-printed message and write something like, "Hello Ordale. It's 2:35 on Wednesday. I hope you get this. Here's a little something for you. It's cold up here. I'm heading out to the store. -Grandma." But the message never ended there. It would almost always continue:
"I really hope I have the right address. I couldn't find the book that has your address in it, so if somebody besides Ordale gets this, I hope you go straight to hell!"
Along with the card, she either sent $5 or a money order for $25. It was the same every time, and every single time she wrapped the money (order) up inside a piece of aluminum foil. She was convinced that the postal service could detect cash in envelopes, but the aluminum foil would throw them off.
I don't really have a point to telling that story. Again, that was me thinking out loud. I really don't know what to say about her passing. Now that I think about it, maybe it's for the best. I've been trying to come up with the ultimate send-off, but while that may be appropriate for some, it isn't for me. A send-off is a way of saying goodbye. There's too much finality to it for my liking.
My brain works in odd ways, especially my memory. The slightest thing can set off a vivid recollection of an entire conversation that happened over 20 years ago. When you have someone that special to you who seemed to do everything in her power to be present in your life...that's an ultimate gift to have. I'm eating a Chips Ahoy right now and it's reminding me of the time we were in Safeway back in 1990 and I begged for... You get the point.
As long as I live, so does she. Normally I don't post people's names or pictures. Just because I've shunned anonymity doesn't mean they have. But, I don't think my grandmother's poltergeist will be too pissed if I declassify some things. After a two year long introduction (evidenced by the nearly 70 posts I've written about her), ladies and gentlemen I am proud to present my grandmother...Mrs. Louise Allen
[caption id="attachment_3561" align="alignnone" width="300"]
Me and my grandma[/caption]
My grandmother used to send me money in the mail. That's random, and I don't know why I'm writing about this. It just popped in my head and made me cry when I thought about it, so I'm "thinking out loud." I was in college and I'd get a letter, which I knew was from her because she had really bad penmanship. She also didn't care what greeting card she picked up. She just needed something to go in the envelope.
So I'd open up the letter and inside would be a card that said, "Congratulations Graduate" and inside she would scratch out the pre-printed message and write something like, "Hello Ordale. It's 2:35 on Wednesday. I hope you get this. Here's a little something for you. It's cold up here. I'm heading out to the store. -Grandma." But the message never ended there. It would almost always continue:
"I really hope I have the right address. I couldn't find the book that has your address in it, so if somebody besides Ordale gets this, I hope you go straight to hell!"
Along with the card, she either sent $5 or a money order for $25. It was the same every time, and every single time she wrapped the money (order) up inside a piece of aluminum foil. She was convinced that the postal service could detect cash in envelopes, but the aluminum foil would throw them off.
I don't really have a point to telling that story. Again, that was me thinking out loud. I really don't know what to say about her passing. Now that I think about it, maybe it's for the best. I've been trying to come up with the ultimate send-off, but while that may be appropriate for some, it isn't for me. A send-off is a way of saying goodbye. There's too much finality to it for my liking.
My brain works in odd ways, especially my memory. The slightest thing can set off a vivid recollection of an entire conversation that happened over 20 years ago. When you have someone that special to you who seemed to do everything in her power to be present in your life...that's an ultimate gift to have. I'm eating a Chips Ahoy right now and it's reminding me of the time we were in Safeway back in 1990 and I begged for... You get the point.
As long as I live, so does she. Normally I don't post people's names or pictures. Just because I've shunned anonymity doesn't mean they have. But, I don't think my grandmother's poltergeist will be too pissed if I declassify some things. After a two year long introduction (evidenced by the nearly 70 posts I've written about her), ladies and gentlemen I am proud to present my grandmother...Mrs. Louise Allen
[caption id="attachment_3561" align="alignnone" width="300"]
Me and my grandma[/caption]
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Court Jester
If you're ever bored, head down to the DC Superior Courthouse. You should be able to find entertainment anywhere in there, but my personal recommendation is the Family Court area. In just one hour I lost hope for humanity, but gained confidence in myself. It balances out.
It's funny because even if you're there for jury duty, they still assume you're there for a child support hearing. Just out of sheer curiosity, I took a trip down there. There was just an endless sea of angry guys lined up waiting to go in with their free legal aid rep in tow. The highlight of this trip was a guy who was cursing out the clerks because they duplicated his court dates. "What don't you understand? Yall got me coming down here three times for the same thing. It's an error on your part!" The clerk took off her glasses, put on her "negro please!" face and said, "No, what you don't understand is that there are three different plaintiffs for each of these three cases." It took him a while to get it. It wasn't a duplicate court case. All three of his kids' moms filed at the same time.
The highlight, however, had to be a conversation I overheard between two women. I would transcribe it for you, but unless you're fluent in Ghettonics (the Latin equivalent of Ebonics) then it wouldn't make much sense. Basically one lady was telling her friend about why she was filing for divorce. Apparently her husband had been living off of her for two years, and when he was finally approved for disability, he refused to share it with her. To add insult to injury, his disability counted as household income, which terminated her state aid.
She tried to kick him out, but he refuses to leave saying that it's as much her home as it is his. She disagreed because he moved in with her due to the fact that he was homeless when they started dating (no clue how that courtship worked, but whatever). She said that the two of them got into a heated argument over the weekend and he started punching her. She was very proud of the fact that she manages to hold her own every time they come to blows.
My personal thought is that the fight wasn't fair due to the next point she brought up. He has AIDS and suffers seizures. It was during their fight that he went into a seizure and collapsed onto the ground. "Girl, as soon as he went down I just started stomping on him." Apparently, she kicked him repeatedly during his seizure, and when her legs grew tired she began to hit him with items in their living room: vacuum cleaner, TV remote.
She asked her friend to keep this confidential, because he is threatening to press charges. She plans to say that he injured himself during the seizure.
So yeah... If you get bored, please stop by the DC Superior Courthouse located at 500 Indiana Ave NW.
It's funny because even if you're there for jury duty, they still assume you're there for a child support hearing. Just out of sheer curiosity, I took a trip down there. There was just an endless sea of angry guys lined up waiting to go in with their free legal aid rep in tow. The highlight of this trip was a guy who was cursing out the clerks because they duplicated his court dates. "What don't you understand? Yall got me coming down here three times for the same thing. It's an error on your part!" The clerk took off her glasses, put on her "negro please!" face and said, "No, what you don't understand is that there are three different plaintiffs for each of these three cases." It took him a while to get it. It wasn't a duplicate court case. All three of his kids' moms filed at the same time.
The highlight, however, had to be a conversation I overheard between two women. I would transcribe it for you, but unless you're fluent in Ghettonics (the Latin equivalent of Ebonics) then it wouldn't make much sense. Basically one lady was telling her friend about why she was filing for divorce. Apparently her husband had been living off of her for two years, and when he was finally approved for disability, he refused to share it with her. To add insult to injury, his disability counted as household income, which terminated her state aid.
She tried to kick him out, but he refuses to leave saying that it's as much her home as it is his. She disagreed because he moved in with her due to the fact that he was homeless when they started dating (no clue how that courtship worked, but whatever). She said that the two of them got into a heated argument over the weekend and he started punching her. She was very proud of the fact that she manages to hold her own every time they come to blows.
My personal thought is that the fight wasn't fair due to the next point she brought up. He has AIDS and suffers seizures. It was during their fight that he went into a seizure and collapsed onto the ground. "Girl, as soon as he went down I just started stomping on him." Apparently, she kicked him repeatedly during his seizure, and when her legs grew tired she began to hit him with items in their living room: vacuum cleaner, TV remote.
She asked her friend to keep this confidential, because he is threatening to press charges. She plans to say that he injured himself during the seizure.
So yeah... If you get bored, please stop by the DC Superior Courthouse located at 500 Indiana Ave NW.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Hand of the King
I remember sitting in my grandmother's kitchen when I was about five years old. Two unnamed relatives came by to visit around ten on a Saturday morning. "He's still here!? Why do you always have him? He ain't your responsibility. If she didn't want any kids then she shouldn't have had him." I wish I could say that I overheard this conversation, but that would imply that the people saying this weren't standing five feet in front of me. My family never really was big on feelings.
No sooner than I could feel like shit, my grandmother revealed the big S on her chest and said, "Don't come in here talking that shit to me because I don't want to hear it. It ain't none of your damned business why he's over here. Ain't nobody ask you to keep him. I keep him because I WANT to and you if you don't like it you can get your ass out my house." (Self-esteem returning to normal)
There were many people who made me feel like I was in the way growing up, but my grandmother wasn't one of them. No matter what her plans were, I never felt like anything was more important than me. If she had something to do, then I just tagged along. Walking thirty blocks to pay the light bill? I'm going too. Sitting in choir rehearsal for 40 days and 40 nights. Me (and my transformers) too. And if she wanted to go see a movie starring "that man, uh, what his name...with all the moles on his face...Morgan Freeman!" then she wasn't gonna let a little thing like 1st Grade stop me from going with her to see Lean On Me too.
To be honest, I think a lot of my personality can be attributed to her, which is a sweet thing to say as a 31 year old. When I was 8, but still acted like this, well that was something entirely different. "You shouldn't say stuff like that around that boy. He's old enough to understand you." Her church friends always worried that my developing mind would be warped by their blunt and totally-inappropriate-for-church conversations. I knew who was sleeping with who, who was "on that stuff," and who her entire pew of cohorts felt could and could not preach "to save their damned life." But as my grandmother often retorted, "He ain't stupid enough to repeat it. It'll be the last breath he ever draws."
As I got older, our roles switched. The same person who taught me to add and subtract was asking me to add up her bills to make sure her math was right. The one who signed my permission slips was now having me look over her mail to see if I could make sense out of what "those people" were saying. And then one day the same person who used to threaten to beat me half to death if I didn't let the doctors give me a shot was now handing me a paper naming me her power of attorney for her own medical issues.
Instead of a shot to make her better, she's entrusting me to have the strength to do what she thinks her own children won't be able to do: pull the plug. Anybody else's grandmother would've had a heartfelt speech prepared. Not mine. "I'm giving it to you to do, because the rest of 'em are too fool to do it. I don't want them sittin up around me crying like a bunch of fools. Just let me die and move on." People who don't know me very well assume I have no emotions. Maybe now they understand what it was like growing up in Sparta.
So now here we are about two years later. Things aren't looking too good, and I've spent the last couple of days repeating to doctors, nurses, their witnesses and my family, my grandmother's wishes. Of course, in the moment, no one hears what she wants. They hear what I'm saying. Telling someone not to even try to revive a person if their heart stops is hard to hear. Telling them not to use a ventilator and to let them suffocate to death is also hard to hear. But trust me, as hard as it is to hear, it pales in comparison to what it feels like to say it.
So in 2013, yet again, as it was with my marriage it is with my grandmother...I love a woman so much that I have to be willing to let her go.
No sooner than I could feel like shit, my grandmother revealed the big S on her chest and said, "Don't come in here talking that shit to me because I don't want to hear it. It ain't none of your damned business why he's over here. Ain't nobody ask you to keep him. I keep him because I WANT to and you if you don't like it you can get your ass out my house." (Self-esteem returning to normal)
There were many people who made me feel like I was in the way growing up, but my grandmother wasn't one of them. No matter what her plans were, I never felt like anything was more important than me. If she had something to do, then I just tagged along. Walking thirty blocks to pay the light bill? I'm going too. Sitting in choir rehearsal for 40 days and 40 nights. Me (and my transformers) too. And if she wanted to go see a movie starring "that man, uh, what his name...with all the moles on his face...Morgan Freeman!" then she wasn't gonna let a little thing like 1st Grade stop me from going with her to see Lean On Me too.
To be honest, I think a lot of my personality can be attributed to her, which is a sweet thing to say as a 31 year old. When I was 8, but still acted like this, well that was something entirely different. "You shouldn't say stuff like that around that boy. He's old enough to understand you." Her church friends always worried that my developing mind would be warped by their blunt and totally-inappropriate-for-church conversations. I knew who was sleeping with who, who was "on that stuff," and who her entire pew of cohorts felt could and could not preach "to save their damned life." But as my grandmother often retorted, "He ain't stupid enough to repeat it. It'll be the last breath he ever draws."
As I got older, our roles switched. The same person who taught me to add and subtract was asking me to add up her bills to make sure her math was right. The one who signed my permission slips was now having me look over her mail to see if I could make sense out of what "those people" were saying. And then one day the same person who used to threaten to beat me half to death if I didn't let the doctors give me a shot was now handing me a paper naming me her power of attorney for her own medical issues.
Instead of a shot to make her better, she's entrusting me to have the strength to do what she thinks her own children won't be able to do: pull the plug. Anybody else's grandmother would've had a heartfelt speech prepared. Not mine. "I'm giving it to you to do, because the rest of 'em are too fool to do it. I don't want them sittin up around me crying like a bunch of fools. Just let me die and move on." People who don't know me very well assume I have no emotions. Maybe now they understand what it was like growing up in Sparta.
So now here we are about two years later. Things aren't looking too good, and I've spent the last couple of days repeating to doctors, nurses, their witnesses and my family, my grandmother's wishes. Of course, in the moment, no one hears what she wants. They hear what I'm saying. Telling someone not to even try to revive a person if their heart stops is hard to hear. Telling them not to use a ventilator and to let them suffocate to death is also hard to hear. But trust me, as hard as it is to hear, it pales in comparison to what it feels like to say it.
So in 2013, yet again, as it was with my marriage it is with my grandmother...I love a woman so much that I have to be willing to let her go.
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