What I Should Have Said

  I woke up today feeling empty. Just as empty as I was this same time last week. A week ago today, my precious Mamaw left this world. She slipped out of her old, disease stricken body like slipping off a Sunday dress. In the end, it was peaceful. After several weeks of instense pain, she was finally free. And although I am grateful she is no longer suffering, I am left with a feeling of emptiness I can barely put into words.

  After the actual event, there was the process. The visitation, the funeral, the burial. And I walked away from all of that still feeling a void. Not just a void over our loss, but a void over what I felt was a failure on my part. That I didn’t stand and speak for her, that I didn’t represent her. That instead of her being personalized and people leaving the funeral feeling closer to her than when they came- there was a definitive gap in anyone really conveying the essence of her- a wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. Although I realize it is futile to feel guilt and to dwell on those feelings, it is impossible at present to get beyond the heaviness and fog of it.

   She has been a part of my life since before I existed. She gave birth to my father and also helped to raise me. She was a wonderful grandma- very good at making everything about little ones and being able to connect on their level. I spent countless nights with her telling ghost stories, making shadow puppets on the ceiling with flashlights. I had teas parties with her fine china. We made tent forts, and played dress up. She curled my hair in sponge rollers and recorded hours of our jabbering on an old cassette recorder. With her, as a small child, I always felt safe- loved and valued.

  She loved hummingbirds, lilies and irises. She loved bright colors and fancy things. She loved going to antique malls and was always draw to old, ornate décor. Flowers on everything and everywhere made her happy. Whether it be outside or on wallpaper in the house. Carved furniture and lace curtains. Velvet skirts and silky blouses. She loved  beauty, even though she never considered herself much of one. She was the epitomy of 40’s and 50’s perfection, but never considered herself much to look at. She was humble to a fault, and never had the confidence to see herself as anything other than ordinary when in fact, she was spectacular.

 She was the kind of person you could talk to about anything. Although she may give you advice you didn’t like, she always spoke her mind. If she liked you, you knew it. If she didn’t, you probably knew that too. She would still be polite- but you would be able to tell in the slightly cool interaction or a general attitude of restlessness that she would rather be anywhere else. She came from a generation of absolutes, but as she aged, she began to see the gray in life. She made great strides to become more understanding. She began to show a tremendous capacity for unconditional love for those closest to her. She was often quick on the draw with an opinion, but it always came from a place of honesty and love. Days later, you could expect to get a phone call, worried she had hurt or offended you- and wanting to make sure you knew she loved you.

   She had many spiritual gifts. She was able to tune into your soul and know when something was amiss. She had an ability to discern a situation with almost no information other than intuition. She had often had encounters with other worldly things and was open minded about this subject because of her own experiences. Although she was very dedicated to her faith, there was always a childlike curiosity about spiritual things that were often outside what would be considered normal parameters. She had dreams and visions, and most of us were smart enough to take heed, as they were usually on point.

  She was always worried about herself before others. She was empathetic and caring. She gave what she could, and often times what she couldn’t. Although she came from poverty, and barely rose far from it in her lifetime, she was extraordinarily generous. She was always concerned with whether or not we all had enough. From trying to force feed you when you visited, or trying to send you home with canned tomatoes she was continuously trying to provide somehow. She was always worried about us, and drove herself nearly crazy many a sleepless nights trying to figure out if we were ok, or if we would be. Even as she lay in bed dying of cancer, her concerns stayed focused on her family. As I cleaned her house a few weeks prior to her passing, she kept worrying I was working too hard and wearing myself out.

   Even when you are told someone is dying, I think it is hard to process. It is hard to imagine that someone who has always been in your life will no longer be. My brain still can’t process it. As I sat with her the night she died, I knew it was time. And even then, I could barely stand the idea of a world without her in it. She and I were connected on a level that was unique and real and authentic. It is hard to replace someone like that. In fact, it is impossible. As her breathing slowed, and became more sporadic, I told her that I didn’t want her to go, but that I understood and that she should go. The only comfort I had in that moment is knowing that she was going ahead of me, and will be there to guide me herself when my time comes. Knowing I will see her sweet face one day will make my own transition that much easier.

  She would have been amazed at the outpouring of love for her. For all the flowers and calls and cards. For all of the people who showed respect by wearing her favorite color. For all of the people who shared stories with me and told me how she had touched their lives. She was a soft place to fall for so many people, and I have modeled much of my own life that part of her. She was tremendously proud of all of her children and grandchildren. She relished in our accomplishments, and worried and fretted beside us in our failures. She prayed for everyone one of us without fail. And she always believed God would make a way, and that His will was perfect.

  I have been absolutely bereft at the thought of being unable to call and hear her voice. To know I had already spoken my last words to her has been too painful to bear. And then I remembered a line from a movie I recently watched, where a brother is saying to a sister who basically raised him  “You’re the voice in my head.” And I realized that I could do this. And that I in fact, had been lucky. I had been close enough to her to know what she would say to me in any given situation. I can hear her voice even now, on these dark days, when I am so grief stricken I can hardly breathe. She is with me, a part of me. So much of her is in who I am, I know I will carry her with me everywhere.

  I will carry her with me, but will miss her….Every. Single. Day.