Things I Remember

In my last post, I talked about my Grandma's prolonged illness this year. That day, Monday, July 12, they had given her a feeding tube, because she was aspirating everything she tried to eat. The next day she was doing very well--alert and in good spirits. The day after she was back in the ICU and I was on my way to Pennsylvania. Two days later, after being told she needed surgery to treat a GI bleed, but that she wasn't strong enough to survive an operation, our family made the decision to stop intervention measures and make sure she was comfortable--and that she knew how much she was loved.

Six days later, on July 22, my Grandma, Helen Marie Snyder, passed away. She was 81. I got to be with her for 31 of those years, and it wasn't enough.

I've talked at length with many of my friends about those last six days we were able to spend with her. But tonight, writing this post, I am remembering the many years that came before.

These are the things I remember about Grandma:

• The way she held your hand with one hand and patted the top of your hand with her other hand.
• How she spoke in the third person when she talked about how much she loved us--"You know Grandma loves you, right? Grandma loves all her grandkids so much." Typing the words, it sounds a little odd. Hearing them from her sounded....well, right.
• That she hated to have the radio playing--no matter what the station or volume--in the car. It was too loud and distracting for her when she drove.
• The Johnny Cash, Conway Twitty and John Denver albums mixed in among her collection of mostly gospel vinyl records.
• That she was one of the worst drivers ever. But since she didn't get her driver's license until she was in her 30s or so and she was so short she could barely see over the steering wheel, we didn't hold it against her. Plus she drove too slowly to ever cause any real damage. Oddly, I'm not sure if she ever even had an accident.
• Her cooking, especially when I was younger. She always complained about it and talked about how much work it was, and how she hated cooking (and couldn't believe it when I took a liking to it). But she was in her kitchen half the time, making zucchini bread or pudding or baked lima beans or something. Mainly she cooked simple things, but they were delicious. And she always let us lick the spoon when she was done.
• How much she loved to feed people and was always worried that someone would go hungry. Maybe she cooked so much, despite her hatred of it, because she wanted to be sure she always had something to offer anyone who came by her home. Grandma grew up very poor, and I have a feeling she went to bed hungry more nights than one, so she made sure no one ever left her place hungry. You could be sure that if you stopped by her apartment you would be asked if you were hungry, if you wanted something to eat or if you would like a piece of candy or chocolate (depending on which she had available at the moment).
• How much she loved tomato sandwiches and chocolate pudding (don't worry, not at the same time).
• Her hugs. No one ever gave a truer hug than Grandma. She hugged with her whole being.
• Her yardstick, stored right inside the door to the basement stairs, with the threat of punishment if we misbehaved. It was threatened far more often than it was ever used.
• That she was always concerned about how her hair looked. I don't think it was vanity so much as wanting to make sure was "presentable." She kept it short and curled, and would fret if it got too long and a "mess," if it had been too long since it was permed, or if an unexpected visitor stopped by and caught her with her hair uncombed. We kept it combed for at the hospital, for any visitors who stopped by.
• How much she worried--about her kids, her grandkids, her friends, her extended family... about everyone but herself.
• My last conversation with her in her apartment, right before Christmas. My brother was asking me about my recent running endeavors and the 5K race I'd finished a few months earlier. Grandma asked how far that was, and I said about three miles. Then I said my next goal was to do a half-marathon. She asked how far that was and I said 13.1 miles. Without skipping a beat, she asked, "Do you want a piece of chocolate?" (I told you!).

The more I write, the more I remember. Some of it I can put into words, and some of it I can't. What I do know is that if you ever met Grandma, you never forgot her.

Yes, I realize I should post more than once every four months

It's been a busy year, so give me a break already, will ya?

And for once when I say "I've been busy," it's the truth, not just an excuse for being too lazy to blog. And I have been blogging--just not here. I was spending most of my writing hours on the blog I created to document training for my first half marathon, through Team in Training (amonthtoremember.blogspot.com if you want to check it out after the fact).

I had intended to post at least sporadically here, too, on the non-running parts of my life. And there were lots of non-running parts of my life to talk about. Problem was, they were either things I didn't really want to share with the rest of the world, or between the non-running and running parts of my life, I was just too busy to write about them.

Here, I'll try to give you a quick recap, without going into too much detail--freelance writing, freelance photography, moving, friends getting new jobs and Grandma.

Most of that's not worth writing about after the fact, so I'll stick to the one thing that is--Grandma.

My Grandma Snyder (my mom's mom) has been sick since Christmas. She's had weeks that have been not-so-bad, but she's had a lot of bad weeks too. She was hospitalized Christmas Day with pneumonia, which has yet to clear up and has caused lots of complications--some that were just not a lot of fun and some that were life-threatening. Early in May, I made a mad drive home to Pennsylvania because she had been admitted to the ICU with dangerously low blood pressure and a racing pulse.

As I was writing this, I got a text from my mom saying the doctors had just finished a procedure to put in a feeding tube for her, since last week they discovered she is aspirating her food. After half a year of fighting pneumonia, they finally sent her to a lung specialist, who ordered a bronchioscope. The test revealed food particles building up in her lungs and blocking her airways. So now she has a feeding tube and is allowed no food or even liquids by mouth.

My Grandma turned 81 in April. Before this winter, she had experienced her share of health problems that sometimes come with age--high blood pressure, diabetes, aching joints. She also has COPD, a disease common among smokers and ex-smokers (which my Grandma is not) that causes deteriorating lung function. But for the most part, she was in good health for her age. She was a "senior citizen" last year. This year, she's elderly.

It was hard to see her so sick at Christmas, and I extended my stay at home to spend a little more time with her. By the time I left, she seemed to be on the rebound. That didn't last. As sick and helpless as she was then, it was nothing compared to seeing her in the ICU, where she looked just completely frail and breakable. She'd lost 40 pounds by then, and just seemed to disappear under the blankets on her bed. She had tubes and wires attached everywhere, her face was ashen and her arms were covered in bruises where they had attempted either to get an I.V. line or draw blood.

My Grandma is one of the most amazing people I know. She raised my mom and her brother by herself, in a time when that wasn't so common, and support systems not so readily available. For her grandkids, she would sacrifice anything. And she is the kind of person who never asks for help but is always ready to give it.

My friend Randi has dealt with pneuomonia herself, a couple of times. When I mentioned the other day that it had been more than six months since Grandma was originally diagnosed with pneumonia, Randi said she could not even imagine dealing with that for so long, plus all the complications and infections that have come with it. She said, "I know where your strength comes from. It comes from her, because you have to be strong to get through that."

I know my Grandma is strong and a fighter. The problem is, right now I don't want her to have to be strong anymore. I just want her to be better.

Random Acts of Kindness

I had the opportunity this weekend to repay a kindness that was shown to me a few years ago.

Truth be told, I wish I were still indebted. And, in fact, I am, as I will never be able to repay one of the people who showed me that kindness.

It was almost three years ago, and I was attending the wedding of two of my good friends from Wingate, Kelly and Quiz (aka Justin, but we always call him Quiz). Actually, I really became friends with Kelly and Quiz after I graduated, through my friend Randi. I knew them while I was in school, but not well.

Randi and I met my senior year, when she came onto the staff of the Weekly Triangle (our campus newspaper) as a freshman, and quickly became one of my most relied-on writers and soon one of my editors (I was the editor in chief that year). Randi remains one of my closest friends, and after I graduated, she took over as editor. Kelly and Quiz joined the staff and the three became fast friends. Soon, they became my friends too.

But back to the wedding, and my unpaid debt. I had to work the morning of the wedding, then drive a couple of hours to the ceremony in Black Mountain, N.C. Things did not go well at work, and the stress led to a migraine, which even in those days were few and far between, thanks to a good treatment plan to keep them well controlled. That day was an exception.

Feeling the migraine coming on, I took some prescription medication to help abort it as I left work, hoping it would take effect by the time I reached Black Mountain. It did not. Once I got there, I hoped that, if I could sit down in the pew and just be still for awhile, I would get enough relief to make it through the ceremony, then politely bow out of the reception and drive home. That didn’t happen either.

If you’re fortunate enough not to be a migraine sufferer or to know someone who is, you may not realize that some severe migraines will make you violently ill. I had one of those migraines. I made it about halfway through the vows before I had to leave the sanctuary—it was either that or throw up in the middle of a wedding. After spending quite a bit of time paying homage to the porcelain goddess, I found the nursery and curled up on the floor in a fetal position, praying for my stomach to quiet enough for me to drive home.

It wasn’t getting any better, so I decided to just go ahead and try to make the drive. Trouble is, there is a long, long, windy downgrade right outside of Black Mountain on the way back to Charlotte, and not many good places to pull off on the side of the road and get sick if need be. So I made it about halfway down the grade, but had to pull off in a not-so-safe place for, well, you can guess. Once I could drive again, I made it to the next exit, pulled off on a side road, did my thing again, then leaned back in the seat for awhile and hoped again my stomach would settle. It did not.

At this point, I decided I could not make it back home, so I turned around and headed back to Black Mountain, hoping by the time I got back I could call Randi (who was the maid of honor) and the reception might be winding down and she could help me (although I was not really clear-headed enough to know how she would be able to help me). So now I had to go back up that steep grade. Again, I made it about halfway.

This time when I had to stop, I was desperate. I literally could not stop throwing up. I was in tears on the side of the road, because I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t drive home, I had nowhere to stay, and my head hurt so badly I didn’t even have the mental cognizance to try to find a nearby hotel or anything—not that there were a lot of options. At one point, I considered calling 911 and having them send an ambulance because I just wanted to go to the hospital so I could get something for the nausea and the anvil that was splitting my head, but then I didn’t know what they would do about my almost brand-new car, sitting at a very dangerous spot on the side of the interstate.

Finally, I called Randi and to my surprise and great relief, she answered her phone. She was at the reception by that point, and although she couldn’t leave, she said if I could get there, they could find some place for me to curl up until it was done, and then I could come back and stay with her and Kelly’s family at the mountain house they had rented for the weekend. I had only met her family once before, at Kelly’s shower. I felt intrusive staying with them, practically a stranger, on the weekend of their only daughter’s wedding. But I was too sick to have any options.

I had directions to get to the reception hall from the church, but not directly from the interstate. I managed to drive back to the church, and it was still open, so I was able to use the bathroom in there (which is at least slightly better than throwing up out your car door along the side of the road). By that point my stomach was finally empty, and after I sat in the car a few minutes before attempting to drive the rest of the way to the reception hall, I realized my stomach was actually starting to settle just a bit. So I stayed there a good while to let it settle as much as possible before I drove to the reception hall.

By the time I made it to the reception, Randi was starting to wonder what had happened to me, and the whole event was almost over. I curled up in a recliner in the lounge while the bride and groom finished hugging everyone and saying their goodbyes. Someone was playing Beethoven on a piano nearby, and the music helped calm me. For the first time, the splitting pain in my head began to ease, just a little.

Finally, it was time to go. But the mountain house where I would be staying was, well, on top of a mountain, and I was in no shape to drive. So Kelly’s younger brother, Kenneth, drove my car up these narrow, windy roads, with me in the backseat, having to stop every few minutes so I wouldn’t get sick again. We eventually made it, Randi tucked me into bed, and within an hour I think I had managed to fall asleep.

The next morning when I got up, I had the opportunity to thank Kelly’s parents, Cathy and Mike, for letting me stay there, and to enjoy the beautiful view from the house. I was so grateful for them opening their temporary home to me, but when I got back to Charlotte, I got busy and distracted (as I tend to do), and I never followed up with a note of thanks to tell them how much I appreciated it. I have only been as sick as I was that day one other time in my life, and that time I ended up in the emergency room. I do not know if they realized what an incredible kindness they and their son Kenneth showed me.

I saw Cathy and Mike this weekend, and I did everything I could to be there for them in their time of need, as they were for me, but I could not do enough. I did not see Kenneth. I could not repay him his kindness, and I never will.

Kenneth died last Wednesday, at the age of 24. He was in Baltimore, celebrating his birthday with friends. After returning for the night, he took a walk on his own. About half an hour or so later, when he had not returned, his friends went looking for him. They found him unresponsive in an alley beside their hotel, and he died shortly after at the hospital. After a police investigation, they believe he simply fell and struck his head.

Randi and I travelled to Maryland Saturday to be with Kelly and Quiz. Again, I worried that I would be intrusive, invading a family’s private grief, but I needed to be there for my friends. We arrived at the hotel Saturday afternoon, where we were greeted by Kelly, Quiz and Kelly’s parents.

They were all so grateful for our presence, and I was profoundly moved by how much it meant to them, even to Kelly’s parents, who still barely knew me, that we were there. It seemed such a huge thing to them, that we had driven all that way to be there. To us, it seemed such an insignificant effort in comparison to their enormous loss.

I hope that in some small way we were a comfort to them in their grief, though I know it was very small. When I mentioned to Randi this weekend how I had felt intrusive at the wedding, basically inviting myself to their house, she told me, “You didn’t invite yourself. You didn’t know this, but Kelly’s dad was set to carry you from the car to the house if he needed to.”

I do not understand how such kind, caring people, who could without a moment’s hesitation open their arms to a stranger in need, could have such a horrible thing happen to them. Their innate kindness and goodness was reflected in their son, who was also so kind to me, waiting patiently every time he had to stop on the way up the mountain. I remember clearly, as sick as I was, telling Randi how nice Kelly’s brother was when we finally made it up to the house.

The strains of Beethoven I heard as I sat curled up in the lounge at the reception came from Kenneth’s nimble fingers. He had taught himself to play guitar and piano. The piece he played was an impromptu performance, from memory.

I’m really not sure the intent of this post, other than to write something I needed to write. I am not trying to find a purpose in Kenneth’s death—he simply died too young. But this past week has truly affected me, as I mourned a man I barely knew, but who touched my life in a way he never realized, through a simple act of kindness. I know that the next time I see my family, I will hug them a little closer, and when I talk to my friends, I will make sure they know how much I care. When someone is kind to me, I will take the time to thank them.

And I will take time to be kind. It’s the only way I know to honor Kenneth’s memory.