I think and I analyze and I search every moment of my memory from my first memories to my last with my nana. I so desperately want to hear my nana's voice that I think the longing is drowning out the sound of her voice in my memory. It's funny because I could swear that sometimes I think in my mom's voice, but I feel like that is even being drowned out.
Our dog, Ginger, hated sticking her head out of a moving car window. She was tiny and she would come back into the car in a sneezing fit. I wanted to know what her issue was so I did the same thing. (I was a kid.) I quickly learned it was impossible to breath with my head out like that. That is what this grief is like. I am right in the middle of an ordinary moment, where life seems okay, and suddenly it hits me that my nana is gone, and I find myself desperately trying to catch my breath. It's unbearable and unnerving. And unpredictable.
I hate getting on the highway because I immediately think about the snowflake falling on my window, Nirvana playing on the radio, and just knowing I wouldn't make it back to the nursing home on time. But I can also remember driving up the expressway in my nana's car. And those memories make me smile, which that is always appreciated. I can remember one time that my nana had to pack my sister and I in her car and get my mom, whose car broke down. I was young, like Game Boy just came out young, and I had the light in the back on because I wanted to play while we were going to get my mom. (I needed lights on to see the screen, that's how old I am.) Nana asked me to turn the light off because she couldn't see while she was driving. I pretty have always thought about that moment when I would be on that part of the road. It's just funny how moments like that stick with you. Or there is the time that I picked up my cup of Dr Pepper by the lid and the lid popped off and soda went EVERYWHERE. My nana didn't get mad, she pulled over and helped me pick up the ice, and told me that I shouldn't pick up cups by the lid. She was the queen of towels on her car seat, so she scooped up the towel and put it in the back. We drove on. I got a Dark Wing Duck toy in my kid's meal and I was thrilled I wasn't in trouble. It sounds so silly but those two lessons stick in my head - especially when my buddy, Jacob, spills his drink because he picks it up from the lid. And I, too, am the queen of towels in my car.
I am perpetually optimistic especially when it comes to the lives other people. I always believe that things will turn out okay. I'm always hopeful. That, I think, is a big problem for me right now. I had so much hope that she would get better. I would bribe her to eat so she would get her strength up because that's all she needed. My own foolishness? Probably. But I even told my mom the day that they gave my nana her last rites that we could be waiting for twenty years in the same place. She would go when she was ready. She still had time to get better. That's how hopeful I was. I had never been given a person to give up hope in my life, and it always proved fruitful. But this. The death of my nana was also the first (and I hope only) time that hope was stolen right from under my feet. Hope and I have never had such a break up before, and I am so clingy to it. I hope I can dream of her tonight, where I can see and hear her. I hope this hurt feels better. I hope my mom has a good day and her hurt heals. But at the end of the day, I am reminded that hope is a dangerous thing and that I never noticed before.
