One Week Later

 

One week ago. I was hanging out with my partner, knowing that seeing my mom’s name pop up on my phone at midnight could only mean one thing: the day my family had been anticipating for a week had finally come and my Nana had passed. She crossed the veil in peace, My Nana. She was surrounded by her kids and their partners. She was loved, tended to, sung over, prayed over and made to be perfectly comfortable and at peace in her last days and hours. I had less than a day to pack up myself and my 3 children to get down to my parents’ home in Tennessee. It’s an 8 hour drive at least, but I somehow made it in 11. It was a very long day, the next day would be even longer and even more emotional. 

The day of the funeral went like this: we dropped the kids off at my aunt’s house in the morning, drove to the church I grew up going to to pick up food for the family, then out to the middle of nowhere to the little Tennessee town my Nana had lived her last year in. Once my Nana broke her arm a year ago she had to come live with her daughter in the family home in Englewood, after living on her own most of her life. Even the cancer hadn’t been the thing to rob her of independence. Something had to physically interrupt it for her to accept it was time for help. The funeral was at a church around the corner from the family home. It was a cute, tiny little thing. Just a basic country Baptist church - close enough to my Grampaw’s house where if he needed to go home someone could just take him really quickly. He’s in his mid-80s as well. During the visitation he flirted with everyone over 65 and swore he’d live to be 100 just to aggravate his children as long as he could. He’d do it, too, the stubborn mule. We had a private family viewing first, then the public visitation, then the funeral service, all told about 5 hours of standing and greeting and thanking and listening. She was to be cremated and buried later in the week privately. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do or feel, and felt like I needed to comfort everyone that was meant to be coming in to comfort us as they paid respects to Nana. Mostly, though I did my own grieving, I fell into a supportive role for my cousin, whom our Nana had helped to raise. They were so very close - I can’t begin to imagine his grief. I was happy to play that role for him, and to support my aunt and dad and Grampaw however I could. Mostly I just made sure they laughed a little. That seems to be one skill I haven’t let atrophy despite motherhood. The tiredness was well-settled in my bones by the time I went to pick up the children from my aunt’s. They'd had a wonderful day, which made my heart happy. She sent us home with food for the next day so we wouldn’t have to worry about making breakfast. Thankfully the kids slept like bricks and were well-behaved the next day as well as we took the day to rest and enjoy each other’s company along with some friends and family that stopped by.

The eulogy was nice, and I heard some stories I hadn’t before. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off my Nana, lying in repose and put on display. It’s such a morbid custom, but I suppose it has its place in the grieving process and in our culture. I couldn’t stop looking at her hands. Those hands showed me how to work hard, how to crochet - they were ever gentle, but still strong and firm. She had always seemed to me to be dexterous and capable. Never had I felt a weak hug, a withering aspect, a powerless moment from the woman. She was sure, stubborn and steady. And how I loved her. I would write her letters and she would write to me back. I got my ears pierced at 21 and she was absolutely thrilled that we could share yet one more thing she loved, her dangly loud ass earrings. Dad always said they looked like fishing lures, and I LOVED them. They suited her spunk and my eccentricities - the ideal combination for a granddaughter’s admiration. 

I had intended to crochet something for my nana. Afterall she is the one who taught me the skill, which I’ve let lie dormant for years. I had planned on making her a lap blanket and a small pillow to prop her arm on. I didn’t get to finish them for her, to my shame. But I decided that I will continue on with them and finish them. For her. To remember her by. To hold when I miss her. To comfort me when I get out the letters and cards she wrote me and remember. I will remember the relief and assuredness I would feel when my Nana would say that she was praying a hedge of protection around me, because I knew if my Nana prayed it ain’t nothin getting through. I will remember how soundly you’d beat all of us at cards and how handily you shuffled a deck. I will remember how you cried and cried the first time you really heard me sing. I will remember you when I get out a journal to write - and I still have every single one you ever gifted me from the age of 9. I will remember you when I put on earrings. I will remember you as I dig deeper into our family history and finish the work you started with it. I will remember you when I see my children snuggled under the afghan you made me, our shared name embroidered on the corners.

As a child I hated my middle name. Who in their right mind would name a child Amanda Sue if they didn’t want them made fun of? Especially when said child has to grow up in Tennessee…Manda Sue was a death knell to 14 year old Manda. Thirty-seven year old Manda Sue feels differently. I am proud to be my Nana’s namesake. What strength I have, what power I can hold, what steadiness I possess comes straight from her. And that is what I will always carry with me. I carry her name. I carry her DNA. And I will carry her memories, cherishing them closely till the day I too pass on and can finally hug her again.

I love you my Nana. More than you know. Home will not be the same without you. One week later and I still can't fathom it all.

https://www.companionfunerals.com/obituaries/Susan-Ann-Sue-Martin?obId=27475384#/celebrationWall