My emo self: let me show you it.
May 6, 2009, 8:22 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

 I’m still having a hard time.

I didn’t get the position I wanted, but didn’t want, that was away from Pittsburgh. So now I’m in Pittsburgh, graduated, working 15 hours a week at a minimum wage job and hating myself. 

I can only talk about that so much, and I’ve done that enough. I can’t anymore.

Now it’s about my Grandma.

She’s having a hard time, too. My dear, sweet, sainted grandmother is dying.

Except, weirdly, she isn’t, at least not with any clinical diagnosis. There’s no reason for her to be dying. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just old, and suddenly she’s declined and simply can’t keep living life the way she has been.

I haven’t quite wrapped my head around this idea. If she isn’t sick, why is she dying? How do we even know she’s dying? How long is this going to take? How long can I hold my breath?

I’m just dying as fast as I can, Katie.

How do you even respond to that?

I just want to go home to my Lord.

What about that?

She’s lonely, I know that. Her friends are gone. Her days are a boring blur, surrounded by interchangeable, Pennsylvania Dutch nurses, and feeble, incommunicable Mennonites. She’s tired. It’s hard to be that old.

And so I call. I call to tell her about my day, to say hi. I call her to remind her that I love her, and remember the times we spent playing rummy when I was a little girl. I call to cheer her up, because hearing that I made her day makes my day. 

And she tells me that this is a rough time, and that I need to just keep going through it, and carry on when it’s over. And I don’t know if she’s talking about her death, or my problems getting my career off the ground. Maybe both, and she doesn’t even know it.

That’s the funny thing: she’s always known exactly what to do and say to make things better. She tells me I’m wonderful and perfect and so slim! when I’m feeling awful and flawed and unwanted. She tells me she loves me when I think I am at my most unloveable. She has my sense of humor, and laughs at my jokes. She loves hearing about my thoughts and my days. She asks me to explain evolutionary theory to her, and why all these companies are sending jobs overseas. Even in her infirmity, even in her old age, she’s sharp and sensitive and kind.

And now she’s dying, sort of. I think. I’m being asked to decide if I want her bedroom furniture, and to figure out what to do with it until we have room to bring it across the state. All I really want is her crucifix, but that will stay with her till the end. I’m not ready for her bedroom furniture. I literally don’t have the space, and I think I need space in time before I can take it. 

And now she’s dying. I don’t think I can  handle this right now, but I must. She says I must, and I must. I’m not ready, but she is. And when her time comes, I will be ready. Because I must. And when it’s over, I’ll carry on, because I must. She’s said so, and she’s always right.