Relishing my Grandma-hood

These charming mice appeared in my mailbox on a birthday card from my 11-year-old granddaughter. The accompanying message said, “I’m so glad you’ve stuck with me for all my life.” Oh, Sweetie! So am I and how could I not have?

 Her little brother’s card, with rocketship graphics, said, “I love you so much my heart flys to neptune ♥”

These two cards are a continuous delight and I’ve been reflecting on grandparenting since I opened them. (Not that grandparenting has been far from my thoughts lately, since we are regularly babysitting for our 3-year-old grandson these days.)

 I never had a “grandma.” We called one of our grandmothers Grandmother Gustafson and the other one Florence. In grade school, I made a brief foray into grandma territory. Helping Florence with the dinner dishes one evening, I ventured to call her Grandma. Florence pivoted towards me and proclaimed in a stentorious voice, “You may call me Grandmother or you may call me Florence, but I am nobody’s Grandma.” Point taken, Florence.

 My mother told me she preferred to be called Mother rather than Mom, but she was, nonetheless, Grandma Jeanne to her hordes of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It went without saying that I would be Grandma Lane. I could picture it, too. I would be the Grandma the kids loved to visit when they were little and confide in when they were older. I even saved my kids’ picture books and stuffed animals for their future kids’ visits to Grandma’s house.

 In a twist of fate, the first grandchildren I got were my stepson’s kids. Because his mother had disappeared with him when he was a toddler, and kept him hidden his whole childhood, I didn’t meet him until good fortune and Facebook reconnected him to Michael in 2009. By that time, he had already married and had two children, then 6 and 9, who had ample grandparents in their daily lives. Consequently, we have a warm and loving relationship with them as Lane and Michael, not Grandma and Grandpa. Because they live in Oregon and have never visited our home, my book and toy collection didn’t get used with them.

 Grandma-hood finally arrived when our son had his children, those delightful creatures whose birthday cards I quoted above. Unfortunately, he had the temerity to move to New York City to fall in love and have a family. Visits happen regularly, but more often us traveling north then them traveling south, and so the books and toys still have gotten little use.

 Our oldest daughter, who lives practically next door by Houston standards (8 miles), skipped children. Our youngest daughter, who lived a 5-hour drive from us at the time, had three. I began to believe that my stash of goodies would finally be put to regular use.

 I’ve had one special toy put aside for a future granddaughter for many years: our youngest’s My Twin doll, which we gave her for Christmas in elementary school. As the name implies, it had the same facial shape, same skin tone, same eye color, and same hair style as our daughter. They looked alike right down to the glasses they both wore. We invested in look-alike clothes for them and I enjoyed the turned heads that followed them around whenever we went out. When she had Heaven, and later, Hayden, I expected that the My Twin doll would eventually move in with them.

 Tragically, both Heaven and Hayden died in a house fire in 2022, on Hayden’s first birthday. Heaven was just days short of 4-years old. Our grandson came along a few months later, a beacon in the darkness. Now that our daughter lives in Houston, we are regular overnight babysitters. It delights me that the books and the toys finally get plenty of use. I’m into my Grandma-hood!!

 When our daughter outgrew her doll, I sent it back to the factory’s doll hospital and had her reconditioned. Looking like new, she has sat in my closet in her custom case, with her special clothes, for 20 years, waiting to be loved again, but I don’t think our grandson will appreciate her. And I’d be mighty surprised to get another granddaughter at this late stage in the game. Giving the doll back to our daughter is fraught. I worry that it will painfully remind her of what will never be.

 Problems for another day. Today I’m basking in the wonders of grandchildren near and far who love me! I love being loved by them. I am so glad to be a grandma.

 Ciao.

 

In Celebration of Friendship

 

    One’s 75^th birthday is their Diamond Jubilee. I had the good fortune to attain my Diamond Jubilee yesterday. And I had the precious opportunity to celebrate it with a few close friends and family at a luncheon today. Some of my friends knew one or two other people there; some knew no one but me. Nevertheless, conversations took off like they were all friends already, with laughter and chatter filling the room. That’s what happens when creative people gather, and my friends are definitely creative!

     The theme for the party? Friends. A local home baker created these cookies for the occasion. The diamond for my Diamond Jubilee, the peridot green icing for my birthstone, and the sentiment from my heart.

     It is good to have friends and to find time for them. It can’t all be luncheons and parties, of course. There isn’t time or money for that in most people’s lives. But phone calls, cards – yes, mailed!! – and even texts, if you are just too rushed to do more, are good ways to stay in touch. An occasional coffee klatsch is fun. Try taking in a movie with a friend. Just connect; it’s invigorating.

     My abbreviated post today is in celebration of friendship and in appreciation of the people in my life! They make it all worthwhile.

     Check in with a friend today!

 Ciao

 

Exploring Grief

It has been a difficult week. Since I am surrounded by sad events, I’ve decided to explore grief.

 A week ago, we found out that our nephew’s 11-year-old daughter has a life-threatening medical condition. She will require a lung transplant as soon as she’s stable enough. Because of her young age, there are probably several transplants ahead for her.

 A good friend died in May and we attended his Celebration of Life yesterday. Celebrating a life doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather have your friend alive and well. In fact, it made me miss him more by reminding me of all we’ve lost in losing him.

 Our son’s family left town for a vacation yesterday. Last night, he had such severe pain that his wife took him to the ER. There’s a kidney stone lodged in his gall bladder, an extremely painful condition, I’ve heard. He’s awaiting final diagnosis, but it will probably require surgery. Although I expect everything will be fine, I worry. Life is fragile. A niece the same age died unexpectedly last January.

 When I got the news about my great-niece, I tried to tell Michael what had happened and I couldn’t. Literally couldn’t. It triggered such anguish in me that I could not get the words out of my mouth without sobbing. We played a ridiculous game of charades as he tried to guess what I was failing to tell him. It went on long enough for me to compose myself and give him the rudiments of her story.

 I know where this overpowering grief comes from: the losses of my mother, in October 2021, and of my two little granddaughters, in 2022. That pain is seared into me.

 But what about the five stages of grief, you ask? Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance identified by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book On Death and Dying. Shouldn’t I be moving through those stages, resolving my grief?

 Ha! The joke’s on all of us. Cody Delistraty, author of The Grief Cure: Looking for the End of Loss points out that Kubler-Ross’s work applied to the dying person, not to the survivors left behind. And even for the dying person, it was never presented as a lockstep path forward, although people seem to believe that wholeheartedly. The Five Stages of Grief Are Actually Wrong. Here's Why.

 I am tired of loss. I’m especially tired of losses that are not part of expected life cycles. My mother was 99, after all. She did not die untimely. But our extended family has had four untimely deaths – two younger adults and two children. I pray that I don’t face any more of those.

 Ciao

To Hell with Aging!

 

On August 17, I turn 75 years old. That’s a BIG number! Does it mean I’m old now? When do people get old? What’s the calculus between old and young?

Last night I made an impromptu run to Kroger at 10:15 to pick something up. When I arrived and parked on a lot almost devoid of cars, it felt a bit spooky.  I forgot the store only keeps one door open at night, and I parked near the wrong door. As I exited my car, I looked around, checking out the surroundings. There’ve been a lot of carjackings and juggings in Houston and I didn’t want any trouble.

Hmm. Looks scary with no people around. Am I safe? I mean, I’m an old lady … Hmm. Am I an old lady?

I immediately thought about myself at 23, head up, shoulders back, arms swinging, striding purposefully down the sidewalk near my home in Laclede Town, the avant-garde, mixed-use apartment complex I lived in when I went to graduate school at Washington University in St. Louis.

Here I am, shoulders back, head up, arms swinging, striding purposefully across the lot, just like 1973. Is that old walking? No, it is NOT!!

Feeling a little cocky – just try something, amorphous villain, I’ll clock you good with my purse! – I strode into Kroger, bought my item, and walked back to the car, safe and sound. But the question of oldness didn’t leave me. What does it mean to BE old?

The classic indicators:  you’re frailer, slower, unsteady at times. You have under-performing quads and hamstrings that make it hard to pick yourself up. You suffer innumerable aches and pains. Unexpected confusion hits you at times. You have fatigue but can’t sleep.

I recognize all those signatures of aging in myself, but here’s the rub. I’ve had them for 36 years! At 39, I received the devastating diagnosis of Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. In a transaction I’ve immortalized in my recently finished memoir,* I told the doctor I had heard of two kinds of lupus, one that was a skin disease and one that kills people. She replied, “You have the kind that kills.”

That rude introduction to my future unnerved me, but lupus did not kill me, at least it hasn’t yet. What lupus did was give me all the attributes of old age decades before I should have had them. It’s been a rollercoaster ride of incapacities, impairments, and infirmities interspersed with periods of relative well-being. I feel thankful for every day I’ve had, whether in pain or not, to share a life of love with Michael, to watch our children (and now grandchildren) grow up, to find personal fulfillment.

And where does this reflection lead me? To hell with old age – I reject it! I won’t claim young, but I’ll claim steadfastly to standing upright and moving forward despite all the years in my tally.

*My memoir is The Requirements of Love: Forging a Family Against the Odds. It hasn’t been published yet, but I’m working on that.