A new voice (at last)

This is from Marilyn.

In memory of Mom, Grandma, Dode, Nana, Dodie, No-no Nana,
Crystal, Great Grandma, and Dorothy:

It is said that a loved one is known by many names, and that was true with our mother, Dorothy Joan Pickrel Gravett. One of 11 surviving children and the self-described “runt” of the family, Dorothy held her own among bossy brothers and taller sisters. Her family was well off but she learned early that life had many dimensions, for she helped her mother tend to the mentally ill grandmother strapped to a bed in the upper floor of her large house. When she was still a teenager, amidst the Great Depression, her family lost everything and Dorothy turned her wages over to her parents. She married Edmund Johnson Gravett, a creative alcoholic who shared her love of music and dancing. They lived through World War II and had a family. She suffered miscarriages and a baby brought to term who died before delivery, having her last child, Joan Elizabeth Gravett, when she was 42 years old.

The house I grew up in was predictably unpredictable. Alcoholism and schizophrenia are diseases fueled by depression and repression, and the effects on family life are now well documented and better understood. As a child, I never felt safe. And for years I blamed my parents.

I heard once that forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past. For years I longed for that: a better past. Until I grew up. Until I accepted who I was in sum. Only then could I see my parents for who they were: human beings terribly burdened by their own diseases and demons who did the best they could to love and rear us. And I can recognize the gifts they bestowed: creativity, a sense of humor, a love of music. My last interaction with Mom was on Saturday afternoon. She wouldn’t open her eyes when she talked to me so I made a crack about me being so homely she couldn’t bear to look upon me. Her response was that wonderful warm smile of hers, with one corner of it bent slightly, sardonically, knowing she was being teased.

My favorite memories of mom are: wrestling with Joanie and me on the living room floor; letting Joanie and me “treat” her aching legs after work with layers of cream and powder and not getting mad when she woke up caked from our therapy; playing “house” with 3-year-old Rachel for hours on end; locking herself out of our San Jose house and peeing in the dog’s water bowl; having her picture taken with Beetlejuice at Universal City; and dancing with Vera in Indianapolis when she was 92. But my favorite memory of mom is seeing her come down our street in Orem, Utah, with my late husband Robin holding her arm and swinging his white stick, and mom pushing Danny in the stroller, and keeping a watchful eye on Rachel on her tricycle, all the while smiling at me and telling the family, “Mommy’s home.”

30

July 8. 2010

The old-fashioned journalists' code for the end of a story is 30.
Not even scholars of the field can give a single convincing reason for it.
But 30 for generations meant, the end.
And so it was for Dorothy Joan Pickrel Gravett at 2 a.m. July 6.
30.
That's all she wrote.
So long, farewell.
As she had wished, Dodie/Mom/Nana/Nono left this plane in her sleep. She had suffered an attack of coughing on July 3 from which she entered a coma and never again opened her eyes to see. Pneumonia was diagnosed and left untreated. Only comfort care from hospice was administered, per Dorothy's written wishes.
Marilyn felt she had left us by Sunday, July 4. Ted and Linda came to visit, as did Sarah and Fred and I.
And we knew for sure when Alice, the kind and concerned nurse, called me at home at 2:05 a.m. with the news and an apology -- an apology for not being present.

But we felt this was what Mom wanted. After all, she had withstood the best ministrations at Ebeid Hospice Center next door since Jan. 29, care designed to help her sail into the great unknown with maximum comfort and minimum anxiety.

Moved to the Goerlich Center nursing home next door on the Flower Hospital campus, Mom had shown signs of progress, sitting more nearly upright, feeding herself, opening her eyes, and talking. all in the active dayroom of the "Main Street" unit for the least abled residents.
Hospice served her well there, too, and, when the end came, a lovely nurse named Joanne was there to lead us fumbling through the final steps.

Somehow, no matter how well you think you have prepared, when it comes to do the few final tasks, a kind, seasoned person like Joanne makes the process more human. I have been in a fog of sorts since that early morning call; not even able to cry, just going through motions that I have to dredge up in my memory from earlier, more coherent times.

Truly, I cannot believe Mom is gone, even though I am toting around the rest of her personal effects from the Goerlich center in the trunk of my car and stashing earlier transfers in the cottage next door. She is still alive in my mind, still waiting for the next visit which I will approach with a sense of duty but also anticipation of her smile and loving gaze.

Toward the end, Mom could be talking on about horses in her room or rain dripping from the ceiling or the little girl on the sofa and then, in a flash, look at me and say, "Your hair is so pretty." These days, I'm beginning to get a sense of what that fractured consciousness must have felt like.

I'm in a bare room in my head although outside life continues to bustle on.
I can hear Paul and Carter prattle on and on about video games, or play "Monkey in the Middle" at East Harbor State Park beach with all the kids and grownups as we did yesterday. I can get dinner started, served, eaten, and cleared; negotiate with workmen, file obits and pay for them with a credit card, even finish a novel, and yet, it all seems dreamlike.

After months of roller coaster emotions and crises that resolved, I think I finally unplugged that part of my heart connected to Mom for so very long. It will take time to find the connection and, when I do, look out.

After months of blog silence leaving Mom suspended in the 1990s, I cannot just pick up the threads of that story, so I'll end this post but say, watch for more.

Love,
s