Post 23 : Missing You

Day 37: John: Missing You.

“Well, Drew, evening. It’s day 37. Actually it’s 2 a.m. It’s my favorite time here. It’s really quiet. And your night nurse, Linda? She’s a sweetheart. Almost a saint, like Wendy, right?   Have I told you she’s getting ready to have her baby?

“I couldn’t sleep. You see, Phyllis misses you and insists on sleeping on your side of the bed. Can you believe it? After seven years and two rounds of obedience training, that dog has reverted to my number one no-no. On the bed. No. Don’t worry. I don’t have the energy to push her off. And now, I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so.’ I kind of like having her next to me. She looks over at me and seems so sad.

“We’re both sad, sweetie. She misses you. And I miss you. And when all of this is over and you’re home and next to me where you belong, I promise I’ll never complain again—ever, I swear—about you throwing off the covers, or snoring, or cutting the heat up too high or any of the other things I ride you so hard about. Ok?”

I turn my face, unnecessarily, away from Drew. Tears come and I welcome them. They’re my most reliable source of emotional relief these days. I’m not even embarrassed any more. Turns out, in the ICU, where so much is at stake and so many don’t return to their families, there’s a lot of crying going on. Three weeks ago, I would have dismissed it as a display to keep private. Now? I let them fly.

“Oh, and Drew. It appears I wasn’t losing my mind after all. About your smile. At least that’s what I prefer to believe. That same afternoon, you registered some off-the-chart brain waves. I call them “Happy Waves.” And I’m looking for more of them, so just keep on having happy thoughts in there.”

            John, you’re not crazy. I was so happy about fitting in. But it turns out some of the movies aren’t as joyful as the others. The sad ones feel like tragedies. Judgement. Lapses of kindness. It’s hard to revisit how we treated Mae. But you never met her. I’m not sure if I even told you much about her. I think I may have been ashamed. There was a piece of her story that wasn’t very “Leave It To Beaver.” We, my family—we could have done better, John. We could have done better.

Day 39:  Drew, The Dream: GranMag and the Powhatan Arrow

 Amid all the annoying beeping and being periodically poked and prodded and, yes, yelled at, it occurs to me: Every so often I’m sure I smell frying chicken, or maybe green beans. But I never eat in this place.  And if I’m dead, aren’t I supposed to be seeing the white light and the people I love who died before me?  If there’s anyone I supposed I would see first it would be GranMag. Of all of us, she had the greatest chance of being welcomed into the Hereafter.

                                                                                            *

And so the dream starts.

One of the highlights of growing up as GranMag’s favorite (asserted and confirmed by my Aunt Camille) was taking train trips with her. Twice yearly, after I turned five and before her first serious heart attack, I looked forward to late spring and early fall and to boarding the Powhatan Arrow with GranMag for Briarwood and an overnight with Aunt Cam and Uncle Lee. Despite the advent of air-conditioning, GranMag would only travel before or after the summer heat. To me, the journey was exotic and elegant, like something out of the movies.

GranMag dressed for travel. Her home attire consisted of a week’s worth of serviceable cotton dresses in warmer months, and the same complement of lightweight wool outfits for fall and winter. For travel, however, GranMag pulled out her two hand-tailored Sunday dresses in crepe wool: one black, one navy. She wore her good brooch on her lapel (her only gift of jewelry from GranDaddy), a navy lace cap with a half-veil, and her “good” shoes.

I was fascinated with these shoes. To me, a Saturday morning cartoon devotee, GranMag’s shoes were dead ringers for the boat-like short heels worn by Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck. Kit referred to them more simply as “grandma shoes.” Hardly “good” shoes in any way but style, after about five minutes of wear, GranMag’s ankles swelled over the top of the navy leather, which encased her feet in unquestionable discomfort. About this, she never complained. I was under the impression they were supposed to hurt in order to look good.

            The first leg of the journey was to pick up GranMag who, on these occasions, was remarkably punctual. She would be waiting on her front porch with her small, blue Samsonite overnight and her good black purse. I would leap from the car to grab her suitcase and escort her to her seat up front next to Mama. We’d arrive in front of the large clock at the Norfolk and Western Railway terminal at least an hour ahead of our appointed time.

Satisfied that we were not going to miss our train, and not one for lingering goodbyes, GranMag would shoo Mama out of the terminal lobby and we, the travelers, would enter the station bound for our booth in the Norfolk and Western Grille. GranMag would order a strawberry milkshake; I had the cherry pie. It was our 9:15 a.m. secret, one of many that forged the bond between us. After our leisurely midmorning dessert, we proceeded to our platform, and my favorite part of our trip began.