To My Paternal Grandma

I had a dream about you last night. You were home. You had made it out of hospice, and you looked great. You were genuinely happy and at peace. You were wearing a wig. For some reason, you had lost your hair in hospice. You were confident it would grow back w/ no grey as it had after your chemo all those years ago. As a matter of fact, you looked much as you had thirty years ago, but as slim as you are now. We talked and laughed. It was like nearly every other visit I have had with you my whole life. I know my subconscious is conflating your cancer and your current condition because you weren’t supposed to survive your cancer, and you are now in hospice, so your odds of long term survival are pretty low. I know what my heart wants, but, after seeing you in hospice, I know what you need. You enjoyed many moments on our Thanksgiving visit, but you were also sad. You have lost so many people you love in the last few years, and have had more than your share of health crises. The blow of losing your baby brother in August seemed to have really taken the stuffing out of you, though. He was a good man.

You have always been one of the strongest people in my life. You lost your own mother too young, and had to deal w/ a succession of stepmothers, some okay and some who seemed to take their cues on stepmothering from the brothers Grimm. You moved to MI to live w/ family in your late teens. You met Papa while you were on a double date w/ other people. He accidentally slammed your hand in the car door, and you were married a short while later on your birthday. I am certain your marriage has had its ups and downs as any marriage will, but you have been married for over 66 years, and I can see how much you still love each other in everything you do for each other. You had three wonderful sons together. You helped your own siblings. You more than survived cancer; you beat it into submission and told it where it could go. You were never afraid of new technology. You were the first person I knew who had a microwave. You had a VHS player very early, and your camcorder never left your shoulder for a while. You were online when other people your age shuddered at the thought of a computer. You have always been ready to tackle anything. You have always been active and helping others. Despite your schedule, you always, always made time for anyone who needed you. I used to think that your church wouldn’t get by w/out you (you ran the Sunday school, were active in the bell choir, and the chimes, and the ladies’ committee, etc. etc.) and the solid spiritual foundation you and Papa provided for us helped me to find my own calling as an adult. You are a thoroughly amazing woman.

As the oldest grandchild, I have had the great privilege of having you in my life longer than any of the others. You were still working as a real estate agent when I was young. I loved going to houses w/ you, and going into your office at your house was always fun. I still have a couple of your business pens.

You used to zip around in your burgundy Grand Prix with your CB on, which is how you received your Grandma name. Again, as the oldest grandchild, I was the one who christened you Grandma PJ, despite that having absolutely nothing to do with your given name. The truckers on the CB called you Puddle Jumper, or PJ, for short. I picked up on that, and the rest is history. All of your grandchildren know you as Grandma PJ.

My sister and I were the first two grandchildren on both sides of the family, but we were the only two on your side for several years. A weekend just wasn’t a weekend without an overnight w/ you and Papa. You cooked with and for us, baked with us, let us run around in your huge yard w/ all the wonderful space and the things Papa had made for us to play in and on, we did crafts, colored, read stories, watched programs (Murder She Wrote for you and Golden Girls for Papa loom large in my memory), and were just little girls at your house. We used to sit on the corner of your counter top and “supervise” while you worked. We learned how to supervise from Papa.  Eventually, I moved up from supervising to sometimes cooking for you and Papa. I made turkey lasagna and garlic bread for you that first time I took over your kitchen.

As happy as I was for you when you remodeled your kitchen I was a little sad to see the supervising corner go. We were far too old to sit there, but it was our corner.  Of course, the only kitchen my children and the youngest grandchildren have known is your current kitchen, which also holds many special memories. My husband, sister, and I have all made full Thanksgiving dinners in there together while you hovered anxiously around and drove us all crazy. Then, everything would turn out perfectly, and we’d have a great meal w/ everyone, all of your sons, their wives, their children, and their children’s children. It was our holiday celebration on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I also have photos of you teaching my oldest to make monkey bread. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of you making cookies w/ my children and my youngest cousins this past Thanksgiving. Had I known it would likely be your last, I would have loaded up on the pictures. I will always have the memory, though.

Sunday dinners at your house were always a highlight of the week. There would almost always be some sort of dessert, and often, my youngest uncle and his best friend would be there. You used to laugh when I would tell you we couldn’t eat b/c Jim (the best friend) wasn’t there yet. My favorite dessert was Yum. I think it might actually have been your own version of pistachio pudding, but I loved that stuff. I never wanted the recipe, though. It just seemed like something that only you could make. I’m not sure if I regret never learning the secrets of Yum or not. I remember your battle of wills w/ my sister over onions. You would chop them so finely and she would work to pick out every little sliver. You eventually conceded and started just chopping them so she could pick them out easily. I am pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of times that you weren’t the more stubborn one, though.

The major source of discord between my sister and me when we would visit was a spoon w/ stars on the handle. We both always wanted it, and felt that the other one always got it. We argued over that silly spoon so many times. I remember you tossing it down the stairs and telling us no one could have it. We still try to beat each other to it when we are both visiting. My sister wasn’t able to make it this Thanksgiving, and I took pictures of the spoon to send to her.

As we got older, our brother arrived, and then two cousins. Of course, our cousins lived out-of-state, so we didn’t see them all the time, but it was always great when everyone was around, and you and Papa loved it. I also fell ill around that time. Of all the people outside of our household, you and Papa were the two best about just letting my life go on. You were a source of quiet and peace when I needed it. You taught me to crochet, which gave me something to do when I ran out of books and became tired of television in the hospital. It is also a lifelong skill, and I crocheted all of my children’s homecoming outfits; the last was finished up in the hospital. When my sister started going on vacation w/ family friends, who were afraid to take me, you and Papa loaded me up in the Blazer and took me on a trip to WI. I still remember the sandwiches we ate at the rest stop on the way there. The most important thing you did was really listen to me when I talked. We would stay up late chatting about all kinds of things while we crocheted. You let me pour out my heart. That didn’t change as I got older. You, as much as anyone, saw me through my parents’ divorce. You and Papa paid to have a 1-800 number when I went away to college so I could call whenever I needed to do so. My youngest uncle also used it as he was away at school as well.

There are so many wonderful memories. I always looked forward to my new crocheted slippers in my Christmas stocking at your house. Your slippers are a bit famous, you know. The day before you went into the hospital this last time one of my best friends from high school told me that she wore the slippers you made for her until they fell apart. You were good to my friends. You and Papa hosted my thirteenth birthday party. It was a great time, and I hope you stopped being upset about the over-cooked spaghetti noodles at some point. We all loved the party. It felt so grown-up to be in the finished part of the basement, talking, laughing, and having a dance party. We couldn’t have done it at my house. You also made it to every choir concert and play. You loved listening to me sing, so much so that you asked me to sing “If Tomorrow Never Comes” at your and Papa’s golden anniversary celebration. I didn’t think I did that well, but you were so happy with it. You had all of your children and grandchildren performing that day. Your pride in us has always been simultaneously encouraging and humbling.

You and Papa also drove me to college that first time. My parents were each unable to do so for different reasons. We stopped and saw my aunt, uncle (your oldest), and cousins on the way. We had to leave a bit earlier than I would’ve liked b/c of it. I was seeing a boy and my teenaged heart was breaking. That boy and I broke up not long after (distance, etc.), but the great memories of being able to celebrate my cousins’ birthdays with them live on. Good choice, Grandma. I remember you and Papa joking that you didn’t know Epcot was so close to my college town b/c of the weather ball that we saw on the way in. You stayed as long and as late as you could, and then you headed back to MI, and left me in MO. You would later say that you and Papa had to talk each other out of coming back to get me, but leaving me there was the best thing you ever did for me. You were right. I probably would’ve hopped back into your minivan and gone home if you’d come back, and while I would have gone to school in MI, I never would have grown the way I did and met the people I did. Some of my best friends and my husband would have never come into my life if you had not had the strength to let me go. The above-mentioned 1-800 number helped me make it through the terrible homesickness that first semester.

Now, now it is time for me to find the strength to let you go, and I am not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever contemplated. See, you and Papa are supposed to live forever. When we come to MI, we land safely at your house. We stay up and chat. You show me what you’ve been working on in your sewing room. You make quilts, bags, and clothes now. The arthritis made crocheting too difficult years and years ago. All of my children, and my husband and I, along w/ many others, have blankets and other soft goods made by you. The idea that the last time that happened in November was the last time it will happen is devastating.

I meant to call you the day before you went to the hospital. One thing after another got in the way, and I vowed I would do it the next day. As a matter of fact, I was literally picking up the phone to call you when I received the news that you were being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. I wish I had forced the time out the day before when you were apparently doing pretty well. I had a bad feeling about this hospital visit.  Your fight had seemed greatly diminished if not altogether gone when I had last visited. I was hoping I could find a way to help you get some of your spark back, but it was not to be.

We received the news that you were not going home, but were instead headed to hospice, a couple of days before Christmas. My sister and I rushed up to see you that weekend. We stayed w/ our Dad and Stepmom. We arrived at their place, and Dad drove us up to see you. Papa was gone for the day as it was past dark, but you roused yourself when we came in. You smiled. You tried to have a bit of conversation, but it was hard for you to form the words and make yourself heard over the oxygen. We still had a bit of a chat here and there, and you liked hearing us talk to each other and Dad. After a bit, your pain became unbearable, so you were given some meds, and we left as you were finally comfortable and had fallen asleep. Visiting hours were also nearly over.

The next day, my sister was too sick to come to the hospice to see you as she had been stricken w/ a stomach bug during the night. Dad and I went to see you. Papa was there. He had me sit next to you. You were in and out of consciousness as you had recently been given pain meds. We all chatted, and whenever you came around we would talk to you. The aide brought your lunch in, and wheeled it right up to you. Papa informed her that you couldn’t feed yourself, and you won’t eat for him. She seemed a bit dismayed, so I said I would see if you would eat for me. You are on a soft diet, and for some reason, a heart-friendly diet. It seemed to me that once one is in hospice only being given palliative measures that a low-fat diet was probably not necessary, but such are the vagaries of institutions. You seemed to like the stuffing and the soup. You only took one bite of the potatoes, and I did not even try to give you the green glop. Dad and Papa agreed that it looked most unappetizing. You had 10-15 bites of food, and a few sips of milk along w/ some water. I wiped your mouth for you, and gave you a kiss on the forehead. I told you that I loved you. You patted my hand and said, “Thank you. That was sweet.” You seemed to be sleeping when Dad and I had to leave. I leaned over and gave you one last kiss and said good-bye and I love you for the last time. You breathed, “Love you,” and I walked out the door.

Knowing you are saying good-bye to someone for the last time is a shocking thing. I am still processing it. I am so glad I was able to do it, but I can’t really make my heart understand that the next time I go up to MI, I won’t see you. As much as life goes on, you and Papa, and your house, have been my constant source of stability and love. It is time, though. After seeing you in hospice, despite the fact that you are being well-cared for, I knew. You are still alive, but you aren’t living. You are dying. It is time to say good-bye and let you go. Uncle Mel and all your other loved ones are waiting for you. Your beloved mother, whose loss you felt keenly most of your life, is also there. I will miss you terribly, but it is time for you to stop hurting. Every day I dread getting the phone call that I know is coming, but I know it needs to come because you should be free. You can be the woman I saw in my dream last night, although I think you’ll have your own hair. I love you so much, and I’ll sing for you whenever you give me a sign.

And His Mama Cried

Much is being made of the Steubenville rape case, and the media’s reaction to it. I am heartened to hear how vocally disgusted most people seem to be with the rape apologists in the main stream media (and, holy lord, they are everywhere) and with all the sympathy given to the young rapists. Even the Yahoo! News comments section, where decency goes to die (it should really be their trademarked tagline), seems to be trending towards those wondering where in the world the sympathy and worry for the victim’s forever changed life is. *I am editing this to add that I have also seen plenty of victim-blaming, slut-shaming, and drunk-shaming happening, but this is not the majority of what I am seeing, and certainly none of that nonsense is on my Facebook feed or other places where I encounter people I like and respect.

   

The fact of the matter is, these young men’s lives are forever tarnished and ruined, but it is not because they received a well-deserved conviction for raping an intoxicated young woman who was slipping in and out of consciousness.  Not only did they violate her, they recorded it, photographed it, and sent it around as text messages. Some of their friends who did not participate in the actual sexual assault helped with continuing to degrade and devalue this young woman by laughing about it, recording it, and passing it along. She was not a person deserving of respect to them. She was an object to use however they pleased. All of the young men involved are guilty of that, and so help me, I wish they all had to spend a little time in juvenile detention and run around as registered sex offenders.

Yes, the two rapists will forever have to register as sex offenders. Some people seem to think that this is an injustice. I think the one year sentences are an injustice. In one year, are they going to learn to see other people as human beings worthy of kindness and gentleness, regardless of how female and/or drunk they may be? In one year, are we going to be able to undo the years of damage that a culture that cries at the INJUSTICE of their conviction for spending hours treating another human being as a prop has caused? Many people, particularly in the MSM, shake their heads and talk about what a shame it is that their lives are ruined, and that this will be with them for the rest of their days. Yet, where is the head shaking over the fact that they did it? These are not innocent youths wrongly convicted. These are boys who were taught that they were special and above the laws of the state and common human decency because they are athletically gifted. It is reported that they are good students as well. First of all, so what? Secondly, forgive me if I sound a little jaded here, but these kids had adults who were trying to cover up a GANG RAPE for them. Is it really so far-fetched that their grades could be padded? I’m sure they didn’t have to be model students to receive model student grades and perks. They may actually have been, and they may not have been, but it doesn’t change the fact that they REPEATEDLY VIOLATED A YOUNG WOMAN.

This fact is the real shame. They have ruined their own lives, and, more importantly, what they did to this girl will be with her for the rest of her life. Through no fault of her own, she was sexually assaulted, humiliated, and has to live with the fact that not only did all that happen to her, but that many people saw pictures and videos of her degradation. She will need counseling, she may very well end up with trust issues and issues around her own sexuality and sexual maturity, she is now at a much higher risk for suicide, depression, anxiety, and eating disorders, amongst other issues. Let me repeat that first part for the slow people in the audience, THROUGH NO FAULT OF HER OWN. Being drunk, being high, wearing something alluring, wearing red lipstick, walking home in the dark, going anywhere alone, hanging out with guys, etc. etc. are actually not versions of consent.

Men do not rape women for these reasons. They are the red herrings of a culture of rape apologists, and every lawyer who has ever defended a guilty rapist thanks society for creating them. Rapists may use these things as excuses, but rape is about control and seeing someone as less than you. When someone violates another human being, it is not because they were so irresistibly drawn to that person that they couldn’t help themselves, or they were confused about whether someone who had vomited all over herself and was no longer conscious wanted to have sex. No. They do it because what they want is more important than what is right. They do it because they do not see any value in that person beyond what they want from him or her (yes, men get raped, too), and this, this is where we fail every time we talk about any rape, but specifically the Steubenville case.

We do not recognize that no one who sees past his own pleasure, no one who recognizes the value and dignity of other people beyond what those people can do for them, can harm another person the way they abused that girl, and, to make it more disgusting, they did it for fun. It was just a night of partying, and they expected to get away with it. Where I cry for these boys is at a more fundamental level. I cry that they were convinced that it is true that they cannot and should not have to control themselves around others. If they want it, they should take it, especially if it involves sex. After all, who doesn’t secretly want the golden boys, and how can they be asked to control themselves in the face of drunken availability? What a load of crap to sell those boys.  They can control themselves. They can treat a drunk girl the same way that they would likely treat their drunk buddies, which is get them to a safe place, put a bucket next to the bed, and tease them the next day by eating in front of them and making really loud noises.

 I read that one of the boys’ mothers became hysterical during sentencing. I hope she was crying not because of her son’s not remotely harsh enough punishment for his brutal actions, but because at some point he failed to grasp that you don’t hurt other people. People aren’t there for you to use however you please. If someone is at a disadvantage, self-inflicted or otherwise, you take care of them. I hope she wept because her son’s life was ruined long before he raped that girl. I hope she raged because he had become a person who thought it was fun to assault another human being. I hope his mama sobbed because she is ashamed and disappointed, not because he has to face the music for forever changing the life of a young woman. Mostly, I hope she cried for that girl, and all the others like her, who are raped by young men who have not been taught the value of another person.  

99% of You Will Not Comment on This Post

Some of my least favorite things on Facebook are the chain statuses. You know the ones. “Re-post this if you think clubbing baby seals is mean. I bet *insert made up statistic here, usually in the 90s*% of you won’t re-post. <3 for those who ARE BRAVE ENOUGH TO SAY THAT CLUBBING BABY SEALS IS WRONG!” I have a friend who has posted about this recently as a status update. Liking and/or re-posting a status update does not do a thing. I don’t need to prove that I would hug a baby seal rather than club it, that I think cancer is bad, and that I love my husband/children/siblings/parents/planet, etc. by re-posting a poorly-worded status.

I think most who start and re-post these things mean well, and I usually just scroll past them. I used to feel that they were harmless, if annoying. Then I began to think more about it. Do people really think they are making a difference? Is re-posting a status self-satisfying enough that it may prevent someone from doing something useful? Does it even send a subtly harmful message while trying to send a positive one? I think the answer to that last question is most certainly, “Yes.” Let’s take the anti-bullying C&P status. There are a few, but they are essentially all the same, and they read something like this:

On the surface, it seems harmless enough. Don’t bully. You don’t know these people, and you’re piling hurt on the undeserving, but there is an implication, however subtle and unintended, that there are people who deserve to be called terrible names and pushed around. What if the girl that was called a slut had been having sex with a different guy every night? What if the pregnant girl had consensual sex? How about that boy who was jeered as being lame? What if he just went home and read comic books all night, nothing grand and noble, just normal? Let’s think about the boy who was crying. What if he’s just really sensitive? And the old man with the scars? What if he got those setting off illegal fireworks or actually doing something extremely harmful to society, like cooking meth? Would they then deserve the mockery and nastiness heaped upon them?

People shouldn’t bully. Period. It doesn’t matter if the girl being called a slut has had sex w/ 0 people or 100 people. She doesn’t deserve it. I won’t even get into how promiscuity is encouraged in young men while being frowned upon in young women, and how dangerous that is for both sexes, or how I frankly feel that anyone who is that young and that promiscuous is battling demons, regardless of their combination of Xs and Ys. That’s an entirely different post. I also won’t get into what I think of the word slut beyond saying that it is foul, and is used to keep women in line. This virgin/fallen woman theme carries on to the next example of the pregnant teen who was raped. What an awful scenario. Why would that need to be the case to offer her friendship and support? It seems to me that anyone in a crisis pregnancy is deserving of at least that much. Does anyone need to be called lame for any reason or have insults heaped upon him because he cries? In a society that prizes physical beauty and eternal youth the way that ours does, is there anyone who should have to hear about scars that he bears for whatever reason? Is it only a war hero who should be treated with a modicum of dignity and respect? You don’t need to know someone or their situation to refrain from being nasty to them. You simply have to, I don’t know, be nice.

What those who bully, and even those who write and share statuses like the ones above don’t seem to realize is that not one person deserves to be treated poorly and made to feel less than human. We are all deserving of love and kindness, regardless of our sins. What one person says about another is less a reflection on the person being spoken about than it is on the person speaking. The things people choose to say about and to each other are often a reflection of their own insecurities and fears.  Maybe they fear they are actually in possession of the trait they are giving the other. Maybe they are lacking something their victim has. What they definitely need is compassion and a new perspective on valuing life and dignity. It isn’t just kids, either. They learn it by watching us. They see the subtler forms of bullying pass as entertainment for the masses. They listen to us snipe about each other. They are exposed to what passes for political discourse in this country. How are we to tell them to be kind, to treat each other as human beings on an interpersonal level when we can’t manage to do that very same thing as a society? When the best we can seem to offer is a status update that implies that not everyone is deserving of the small mercies of an outstretched hand and a smile? If the cited status is the best we can offer each other in our efforts to help stop bullying, then we have a long way to go, my friends.