March 22 - April 22
In April, my grandmother passed away. Knowing the time was near, we booked seventeen hours of flights and just like that, I was home. Somewhere along the highway, my sister and I passed one another. She had spent a month alongside my mom and uncle through a difficult transition in our Nana’s care and now it was my turn. Three weeks later, our Nana said goodbye after ninety-two years. She had spent 11.5 months battling breast cancer.
How does one become a great Nana? The job requires wit, cunning, and at least one pivotal day at the salon in which your hair turns either purple or permed. You must strike fear into the hearts of babes. You must produce biscuits and force us to bathe. You must have drawers full of tin foil but your offspring don’t judge; you lived through the great depression.
In that magical moment when a woman transforms from a mere mother into a grandmother, there should be a holy rite or a sacred text to lead the way. Surely they aren’t just winging it. All I know is that in my eyes, our Nana was three quarters to sainthood. Sure, she often said she wanted to skin our heads (or skin us alive?! Not sure which is worse). She could be impatient, anxious, and negative as all get out. But, if I could be merely half, or a quarter, or one fifth of our Nana, it would be a miracle.
Throughout my elementary years, my siblings and I would signal to one another as Nana approached in her faithful chariot (a Honda Odyssey with a quilt in the trunk inexplicably covered in wrestlers). Up the stairs and into the house she would march, with her long skirts, collared shirts, and one billion tote bags. She would regale us with her journey to 3-5 grocery stores, wayfinding with her atlas of coupons and an almanac of savings from the newspaper. She would tell our mom, “Robbin, Cheerios are half off this week at Food Lion, don’t forget. I can pick some up for you.” Satisfied, she turned her laser eyes on us. It was time for school. After teaching for over 30 years, she still had an unmatched zeal for learning (or intimidating children with spelling bees).
If I wasn’t already sitting in timeout when she arrived, we’d end up at the piano bench. She would dazzle me with an accompaniment and then grimly endure my excruciating scales, which I had only practiced once before her arrival. Where I’d flopped around like a dying fish, she would swim over the keys with ease. She was full of grace and patience for this music - one of her great loves. Turning the pages she was caught up in careful concentration that looked effortless. Her elegant fingers moving like magic, her rings mirroring the sparkle in her ocean blue eyes.
I loved sassing my Nana. Hanging clothes to dry behind the rhododendrons, picking blueberries, savoring black coffee in her angel mug with the funnies from the paper, we always found something to be sassy about. There will never be another Nana, just like my Nana.
This April, walking around the hospice house, my mom described those last few weeks of Nana’s life like the process of accompanying a woman in childbirth. If anyone knows, it’s my Mom. She is an expert in endurance - suffering no less than six pregnancies. The weariness, the pain, and anxious expectation endured again. At the very end. There was fretting over Nana’s medication (was the dose adequate? Was she in pain? When will the doctor give his update?). There was a battery of regular tasks: Was the catheter full? Does she really need another bowel movement or is this a control thing? Brushing her teeth and watching The Price Is Right made me want to weep and laugh all at once.
Across all the Abuelas and Nonnas and Paattis of the world, I think my Nana could hold her own. I only regret that she didn’t leave us with an orientation guide amid all that tin foil and biscuits. I will be sassying her about this the next time we meet. If I could do my homework, I’d likely find her guide right there between the foil and the biscuits, the clothing line and early morning coffee with funnies. Maybe we’ll meet again at the piano bench, and I’ll get a chance to ask her about it.
My Nana’s Obituary
Juanita’s husband of 62 years, Gene, passed away in 2018. His obituary is here.
Sweet comments from her students on Facebook: First post; Second post