I haven't really been me since my Grandma died. I haven't written a single thought since I wrote her eulogy, which is odd for me. I used to write everyday.I don't know why.
Before, I was scared of death, probably because I've lost so many people over the years to violent and tragic accidents that I just had this aweful, painful, and scared view of it. To be completely honest, I'd never seen a dead person before that. I always refused to look; I guess, because in a way, if I couldn't see it, I didn't have to believe it. Not believe it all the way, anyway.
But, I was with her when she died, and I know, after seeing her in so much pain, that she was alright. The pain was gone and as cliche as it sounds, she finally looked peaceful. I was grateful for death for the first time in my life. A part of me found a great peace in it. I was thankful for it.
Terry Tempest Williams said, "If the desert is a holy place, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every trip to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found."
I've been able to sit in the desert almost everyday, sometimes in the snow, and look at the sky and breath. I've been able to watch the sun come up and paint the Buttes pink and orange, and smell the sagebrush, and remember better days and be reminded of how much I love what most think is waste. I was lucky enough to be able to sit on the banks of the Big Lost in the middle of nowhere, where no one else is allowed to go, and listen to the river and smell the wild roses blooming beside me. It reminded me that I have family and place and Love. The beauty of love is that it is something that is given. You can acknowledge it being given, but the only love you hold is the love you are capable of giving.
I was lucky to be able to tell my grandma I loved her and she was able to know what she meant to me. I'm grateful for that opportunity since I missed it with so many others.
I guess what bugs me the most, is looking at my other grandma, the one still living, after writing that eulogy.
These are the women that taught me to be strong. They made me walk for hours with books on my head so I wouldn't slouch and told me that no matter what, I had to be strong and proud and able to take care of myself because no one else was going to do it. They taught me the value of love and kindness and never to look down on anyone, but instead to get down to the same level and give a sister a push to her feet.
What bothers me, is looking into both of their eyes and seeing a life of regrets. I can't stand seeing my once proud grandmother drown herself in whiskey because my grandfather left 20 years ago. I hated watching my other grandma become mean and bitter. Love isn't supposed to make us feel that way.
I am a firm believer that my Grandma Jeneane sacrificed a lot of her wants and desires in life to make a better life for her kids. It's crazy, but I think she would have fought the cancer a lot harder if she hadn't have fought that stupid divorce. My Grandma Renae sacrificed everything for the love of a man who walked away from everything for someone else. They gave everything to people who didn't deserve it and didn't love them like they deserved to be loved. It makes me angry, but more than that, sad. They gave more than love; they gave their lives and refuse to acknowledge all the love that is still around them.
My Grandma Renae turned 74 last weekend. She can't breathe enough to walk to the patio, and what scares me is she doesn't care. I think she wants to die whereas my other Grandma, as we were walking across the parking lot one day, looked at me and said, "You know, its sad that it takes someone telling you you're gonna die before you realize how great life is. Look at the sky! What a beautiful day." She wasn't ready to die.
I helped my grandmother to bed last Sunday, and helped her with her nebulizer since she shakes too bad to get it in her mouth. She was shaking pretty bad, and said, "I'm sorry," as she started to cry. I wiped her tears and helped her with the oxygen, but the look in her eyes told me it was more than the shaking she was apologizing for. I think she feels shame, but I'm not sure for what. Maybe its that she's never been as proud as she let on; I don't know.
But, I can't help but look at my own life and wonder--what will I regret when the reaper calls?
The part of myself I think I've found in the desert over the last several months, is the one that finally realized that I'll probably have a lot of regrets in life. But, no matter how much it hurts in the end, or how many pieces my heart breaks into, or what I sacrifice for it, I'll never regret loving anyone with all of my being. Nothing lasts forever, not even broken hearts. There's a plan behind every heartache, a lesson in every loss. Life is too precious and short. Love is the only thing no one can take away from us--not even when they leave--and it's too sacred to allow it to turn bitter.
