mus and motorcycles

I haven't lost a grandparent since I was six. It was Grandma Kaye, my namesake, and they didn't tell me what killed her (heart failure) because they thought I wouldn't understand. They were right; I didn't understand. I knew I wouldn't be seeing her anymore, that she wouldn't be taking me out for breakfast or singling me out from the rest of my siblings to take me on trips, to play with me and talk with me during our one-on-one visits at her apartment in downtown Appleton.

She's buried in Oconomowoc next to my grandfather, my father's father, who killed himself in late 1971, a few months before my parents married. One moment, he and my father had a conversation in his kitchen. Then, my grandfather went into the bathroom. A few seconds later, my father heard a gunshot, raced to him, broke down the door, and saw that his dad had shot himself in the head. Those remain the only details revealed about Grandpa John's death, as my father told me exactly one time when I was twenty-three years old.

I don't remember anything about Grandma Kaye's funeral, but I'm pretty sure that I wasn't invited. My mother always told me that she didn't have the heart to take us to funerals. In fact, I went to my first when at the age of fifteen. That aside, only one piece of evidence relates me to Kaye's passing: a photograph.

The picture floats around my parents' house, and it occasionally makes an appearance randomly when I visit. It is never properly stored away for some reason, though the rest of the home is always perfectly, sickeningly in order. Sometimes it's on the red countertop near the kitchen phone and the message tablet and the border collie calendar. Other times, downstairs in my father's office, near his computer and the shelves of his albums next to the desk. When I see it, I am always ashamed, but in an amused way. The picture shows my sister, my brother, my father, my Uncle Bill, and I in a cemetery near my grandfather's grave some weeks or so after Kaye's funeral. My siblings and I huddle together in the foreground, and my father and Bill stand tall behind us, with my uncle clutching Grandma Kaye's golden, engraved box of ashes under his right arm and his left hand on my brother's shoulder. My father has his left arm around Bill's back and his right hand on my sister's shoulder. The position of everyone in the group directs the viewer's eye to the middle of this multi-humaned molecule, the nucleus, which is a shared stage. Slightly above center, my grandmother's remains, and slightly below center, my six-year-old head, complete with a short blond bob. While the other faces are solemn, mine displays a smiling smirk, and I am sticking my tongue out at the camera.

I have never quite been able to explain this, though I did it best right when the film developed and my mother accosted me for an explanation for my disobedience. "I thought it was funny." It's true: nearly every picture of me from ages 5-8 was of me sticking my tongue out at the camera, save the professional school photos which were silly-looking anyway. To me, displaying my tongue in photos was truly hilarious. I loved it, and my predilection and delight for having my picture taken stems from the happiness I derived from these moments in my younger years.

I'm going home in a couple weeks for a wedding, with the intention of scanning that picture in to the computer so that it lives forever. I like it the way that I hate it. It's some kind of a reminder, though I don't know what it reminds of, though I do know that my grandma probably thought it was pretty funny, too.

I found out today that Grandma Darlene's, Mom's mother's, health isn't going well. It's kind of been going this way for some years now, but I'd never thought to put an end to these means. Mom sends me this e-mail: (she types in all caps, so get over it)


GRANDMA DARLENE ISN'T DOING WELL, SHE WAS HOSPITALIZED LAST WEEK IN THE
MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. IT WAS HER HEART. IT WENT INTO ARRHYTHMIA(SP)AND
THEY ALMOST HAD TO PADDLE HER BUT USED A MEDICATION THAT CORRECTED IT
AND SHE HAS TO BE ON IT ALL THE TIME. HAD A FAMILY MEETING AND HER
KIDNEYS ARE FAILING AND IT LOOKS LIKE SHE COULD GO ON DIALYSIS,BUT HER
DEMENTIA IS GETTING SO BAD THAT THEY ARE CONCERNED SHE WOULD PULL OUT
THE SHUNT AND BLEED OUT. IT'S BEEN PRETTY CONSTANT AND CONCERNING NOT
REALLY KNOWING WHAT GRANDPA WANTS TO DO. HE'S VERY TORN, HE WANTS HER
TO HAVE THE BEST CARE HE CAN GIVE HER BUT ALSO WANTS HER DIE WITH
DIGNITY. LONG STORY SHORT, KIND OF.

I don't know. She's going to die, and I don't know when. I much appreciated the idea of Kaye's death--the sudden cessation of her heart's functioning-- to this years-long struggle. The dementia part is right, too. The past three Christmases, she has not correctly identified me from my sister. She doesn't remember that my sister's been married for nearly 4 years now, that she has a great-granddaughter, that I live 150 miles away. The last time she saw me, she said, "My, you're getting to be such a big girl!" I said, "Grandma, I think I understand what you're saying, but know that it sounds kind of rude." It made me angry, then upset, and then more upset at getting angry at her. I didn't talk to her for the rest of the night, and I'm afraid to because of what she might say. I'm a real jerk sometimes.

This month so far, it was all birthdays for me. Both my roommates, my good friend, my fellow comedian comrade, my other fellow comedian kindred spirit, my other friend, my mom, my cat. Fuck this balance. That being said, I would like me some scotch, forthwith, por favor. Single malt, as well. You can pour that damn blended over my dead body.