the ghost of one who knew me

to forget people
to not know them
to not know myself

to lose my freedom, my independence, my identity

When I was young, very young, and naive, very naive, I believed it would be so cool to live to be 100. I have long since changed my stance on aging. So much so that for awhile I've even had trouble picturing and planning for the future because perhaps I've secretly thought I'd not have a long one to face. I don't think I've ever known someone who died of old age. There always seems to be a tragedy waiting long before that time can arrive and I suppose I hold no great hope that my life should be any different.

I've seen people, people I've known slip from the strong, determined, opinionated, giving, caring person they were to a frail, weakened ghost of the person they had been. While it can have many names and faces, I've seen it most in the form of cancer. As I've mentioned previously, I've grown up loosing people I was close to and have come to accept and expect it as part of life. What I'm beginning to learn now is the pain of being with someone alive and yet dead to me.

While not biologically my real grandma, there is someone who is for all intents and purposes, my gram. She's someone who has known me since I was a few months old and has been a big part of my life ever since. She babysat me a lot when I was little and I loved it! I loved her. There was a time once when my dad was napping and I was probably bored so I called her and told her I was home alone (at like age 4 or 5) and she, in her late 70's, walked a mile uphill to our house to look after me, only to discover my dad had been there all along and yet, I don't think she minded. It was something we still joked about until a year or two ago.

She's been around for the milestones in life - birthdays, graduations, holidays - particularly Christmas. Perhaps that's why I'm missing her and who she was so much right now. I hardly have a Christmas memory that doesn't include her. It became a long standing tradition that she would sleep over Christmas Eve and be there with us Christmas morning to unwrap gifts in pajamas and snack on holiday goodies. She'd usually leave at meal time to join relatives but always returned in the evening to spend more time with us. We have family we're given and family we choose and it's nice to feel chosen. We also have a post-Christmas breakfast tradition that I think began because of her, starting small with one or two of us kids and eventually growing to include our whole family. Yeah, I miss her. I miss who she was - who she has been to me and to my family.

I now find myself mucking about in uncharted territory. It's uncomfortable and I'm squirming. You see, things have changed. If I have had any doubts, they were quickly laid to rest during my visit home this year. She knew I was coming home for a visit and yet, during all the time I spent with her, I don't think she knew who I was once. She was trapped somewhere a lifetime ago and I was just part of the delusion. On most of our encounters, she was 16 again and anxiously anticipating her sister's arrival home to hear about her first day at work. I was a guest at her family's home who had come for dinner. The irony of her seeing herself as a child is that it's how she now has to be treated - not with the respect that a person of her age and life experiences should be treated, but in a fragile, tender, childlike manner.

I teach and while I sometimes feel like I give performances for a living and my daily routine is largely impromptu speaking, it's different to suddenly be doing improv to someone's misconstrued reality. Her quick wit and our sarcastic banter will be no more. It's a hard reality to face that a relationship of 26 years is suddenly gone, yet that person is still very much alive and right in front of me. It's hard to be with someone who doesn't even know I'm there.

I'm good at shutting people out when it becomes too painful for me to know them, a folly I'm aware of. Too often I give little regard to what they're dealing with and how my absence/silence affects them. Instead, I shut down, detach, and throw myself into distractions. Sadly, it's what I know and what I far too often do. Here I am once again at the same crossroad. My instinct is to raise my guard, back out, and shut down before it gets any more difficult, but at the same time, she doesn't deserve that - not from me or anyone else who knew her well, even if she no longer knows us. It's hard. There's no hope to cling to that things will get better. There's only holding close and letting go.

A widow with no children of her own, she took to us and we to her. Though now 98 years old, I've always seen her as someone full of spunk and life. I've always admired her independence; she still lived on her own until about 2 years ago. Her unconditional love for my brother, perhaps for all of us, has always astounded me. She saw us kids at some of our best and worst moments and still decided that we were worth being a part of her life. Is she not still worth being a part of mine? When her hip was fractured, she lived with us. When her eyesight failed, we became her eyes, but when a mind slips, there's little that can be done but try to ease the passing of time, try to hold on to good thoughts and memories, remember what once was and fight reason to cherish what still is. Life will be over too fast and I'm not up for facing more haunting regrets. Reality: life is difficult. In the infamous words of a friend, I've got to "suck it up cupcake."