Grandma's Song

Nearing 90 years of life, she sat on the edge of her chair/bed starring into my daughter’s eyes as if there was some clue there as to who she was. 

“Whose baby is that?”My grandmother asked my Aunt who took great pleasure in presenting Bralynn as a surprise while I stood in wait to make my dash into Grandma’s eye sight.  I stood there and had a brief moment of hope that even though she’d only met Bralynn once, something in her aged heart would make her know that this was my baby – the grandchild of her first born son. 

But she didn’t know her.

I called in to her, “Grandma, you don’t know this beautiful little girl?”  Without seeing me, she said with a relief that I pray I never forget, “Funmi.  Funmi is that you!”

 “Yes, it’s me!” I looked into the eyes of a woman who has traced down life’s winding road in a way that I know The Creator would marvel upon.  She’s witnessed all of her siblings’ transition and favorite cousins have gone on before her.  However, the most remarkable of all is the fact that she has lived through the death of a child; a son; her first child.

I sat outside with her caregiver for our catch up session that I’ve come to cherish.  Ms. Pat has all the goods on how G’ma is really doing.  I want to know the truth about the good and the bad days.  Her age has begun to welcome dementia.  While, it’s hard for me to see the bad days, I know they are there.  I wanted to hear Ms. Pat tell me what happens when she slips.  She explained to me that my grandmother, on bad days, forgets how to answer the phone.  I remember when I lived with her, she was always on the phone chatting it up with her friends.  I found it particularly interesting that the phone gets on her nerves some days.

“She often speaks of her siblings and her mother”, Ms. Pat explained.  I never heard my grandmother speak about her mother.  I was thrilled about that.  I know dementia takes its victims back to memories of early life.  I find comfort in the idea that she’s remembering being a daughter instead of a mother or grandmother.  I wish I could have a glimpse of a younger Evelyn prancing around with her beautiful smile and curves galore.  That makes me smile.

Then, Ms. Pat started to explain how she listens to stories about my daddy. I began to feel a little sad.  But it was nothing compared to hearing her discuss how much she hears about me.  “Funmi, she talks about you all the time.”  I knew what that meant.  I couldn’t respond.  But, I internalized it to process later.

On the ride back home, I began to process what I’d learned from Ms. Pat.  Tears began to meet at my chin.  I know why she talks about me all the time.  I know why our bond is so thick and strong.  I know why there is such a connection between us.  When she looks at me, she sees her child.  She sees, with ease, what’s left of her son.  In me, she sees the child that has gone before her.  I’m sure, now, that she has always seen him in me.  I believe that when I was born and the universe knew the story of my father’s life would be brief, it breathed relief for her in me.  She’s able to find solace in his departure in my voice.  In my eyes, she can see his face.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to say goodbye to a life to whom you’ve given birth.  But, I have watched my father’s mother exist even in the pain that visits her daily.  I’ve watched her cry when it’s too much to look at me.  I’ve cried with her.  I’ve even called her on his birthday and cried because I know that she’s the only person in the world who could possibly understand that stinging pain of not having him with us. 

The bond that rests in the blood lines of family should never be crossed.  It is our foundation and it is to be valued and cherished.  Our time here is short and if we spend time on things that don’t matter, we fail to offer time to that which does.  You can make all the money in the world; receive accolades and rewards; and, accomplish great things in this life.  But what matters are the lives that touch you and those that you touch.  Family is where that all starts and it should never be an option.  My family reminded me of that recently.  Respect the blood that flows through you and respect the people who share it with you.