I had a difficult relationship with my grandmother. When I was small she was known as Pook, as she had several mid-sized moles on her face that I called Pooks, after the sound I imagined they would make if they popped. She cared a lot about me and would always tell me stories and give me gifts and show me how to make things.
But she had demons she never conquered. She was mentally ill her whole life and in a lot of ways it left her unable to deal with the world. My mother knew but pretended she didn't. She couldn't accept that her mother was sick. My grandmother had angry fits in which she would lash out at me and tell me what a bastard I was and belittle me. There are incidents that to this day I don't speak of and remain locked up inside. Very sad periods.
I choose instead to think about the good things she gave me. The Hallowe'en she handmade a Superman costume for me. Learning Cribbage. Being four years old and desperately longing for a dollhouse and having her buy it for me and building miniature furniture for it. Walking to the park and pressing the leaves we found there into books. Baking cookies. These are the things I really want to remember.
She was raised in a Mormon home near Calgary and never forgot the lessons she had learned there. She came to Toronto to study at the Royal Conservatory but never managed to finish. Her illness overwhelmed her and she spent some time in a sanitarium. Shortly after my mother was born. She concealed this fact so well that neither of us knew anything about it for years.
She was deeply religious and always tried to instill in me she felt to god, all the while encouraging me to follow my dreams and telling me she would love me no matter what. I went to church for awhile, mostly to please her. But it didn't take root in me the way it did in her. I never saw church or religion the way she did and eventually became an atheist. I told her and she was unhappy about it, but she accepted me the way she always promised she would.
I grew into my teenage years the way anybody does, in a whirl of new thoughts, feelings and experiences. I still saw my grandmother fairly frequently, but as time went on it grew to be less and less. I felt I had my own life to lead and my limitations to overcome. When I heard she was in the hospital and in rough shape, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself and drowning in my own troubles. When I finally did get to see her, it was horrifying. She was unconscious. Her hair was yellowing and like straw. Her eyes were open but milky and unresponsive. Her skin was thin and almost see through on most of her body. She wore a respirator and had an IV tube. Her arms were restrained because she would wake up and remove the face mask and wasn't able to breathe.
Every now and again, in a state of delirium, she would call out in half-formed words that, without her false teeth sound just like baby talk. Baba, for Barbara, my mother. I was there for almost an hour, just watching and trying to see if she would snap out of it or something.
And for a few moments when the doctor arrived, she did. She didn't know where she was or why, but at least she was aware. She saw us and we held her hand. She gathered her strength and whispered "pray for me" to us before falling back asleep. It was for all of two minutes.
That night she died. My father called and told me the next evening. I was speechless. I hadn't prayed for her that night; I had never prayed in my entire life. I don't think Pook would have wanted a fake prayer. She valued honesty and decency and to pretend something you don't believe would have been neither. But at that moment I almost wished I could pray and really believe in it.
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