As I write this, my maternal grandmother is somewhere between nearly-dead and very-nearly-dead.
My grandmother’s death won’t be a tragedy. She has lived for 89 mostly-good years and is not dying suddenly of stomach cancer or leukemia or because of an attack by flesh-eating bacteria. She’s dying because she is old. Her heart hasn’t worked well for a long time. Now her lungs won’t let her breathe. Soon, her kidneys will fail, and she will die.
I loved my grandmother, and she loved me, but I would be a liar if I wrote that we were close. I probably had, at most, two or three above-average, emotionally-depthful conversations with her. But above-average, emotionally-depthful conversations were not my grandmother’s specialty.
My grandmother lost her first husband at 42. Her second son died when he was 18. I have no way of knowing if those doses of abandonment led to my grandmother’s inability to connect, but if Inquised, I would say they did. I would also say that this tightrope act – with full-fledged connection on one side and aloof distance on the other – led to my grandmother’s role as the matriach, the coordinator, the central cog on the wheel that makes up my mother’s family. Her tightrope act also led to me to believe that her death wouldn’t affect me all that much.
I was wrong, but not for the reasons a grandmother’s death usually affects a person.
When I arrived in Wichita to see my grandmother one last time, she was resting not-so-comfortably in the cardiac rehab unit in which she’d been interred. She was pale, her always-pristine hair was wild and ratty, and her body was folding into itself like a man catching a cannon ball.
As sat down in her Spartan half-room, I arranged my face into a smile of greeting even as my brain recoiled. Who is this human with the tissue paper skin and the Troll doll hair?, it wondered.
In an instant, I was angry with myself. This was no stranger. I hadn’t been sent by a community outreach program to see some old woman I didn’t know. This was my grandmother.
I took a deep breath and smiled again. I asked her a question, and got a laugh. She said, with a wry grin, that getting old wasn’t much fun. I relaxed, finally sure that the person in front of me was who it was supposed to be.
After ten minutes, her eyes closed and her head fell back into a morphine-induced abyss. For the next few minutes, she found the pattern that had been her natural one for days: wake for a moment, try to get a breath, and then go back to sleep.
I could hardly watch.
Once again, I was disgusted at my reaction. Why should I be struggling so? I wasn’t the one dying. Soon, I would rise from my chair, walk to my car, and spend the night in a comfortable hotel bed. Most important, I would get to keep breathing. Barring catastrophe, I would continue to get to keep breathing for another 40, 50, maybe even 60 years.
I told myself that my anxiety was natural. After all, my grandmother’s death would bring with it the realization that my parents are the oldest direct ancestry I have. And that they’re the only generation between me and my own death.
But that didn’t explain my reaction. Not completely anyway. I’ve been prepared for my grandmother’s death for some time; she’s been failing for months. And I’ve dealt with death before. As could be interpreted from this grandmother’s lastness, I’ve had other grandparents die. My grandmother’s second husband – the man I knew as Grandpa – died when I was a senior in high school. I was much closer to him than to my grandmother. But, because I didn’t watch him die – or watch any part of his death – his departure was conceptual. He was alive. Then he was dead. My brain could build a prettier, simpler chain of events for his death. He was old. He went to sleep. Then he was gone. He was probably joking with the nurses up till the end.
My grandmother’s bed in the cardiac rehab unit left no room for such fairy tales. The woman was in pain. She was not happy. She was not peaceful. And she was going to die. There was no escape.
And there was no way for me to pretend that it wasn’t going to happen. Or that it was going to happen in a different way.
Much of my life – much of any life, really – is spent pretending. The house I’ve remodeled, the warm bed I have, the arguments about politics I savor – these are the ways I convince myself that I’m not a mortal organism who will be aware of his surroundings for some finite number of years and who will then become food for those surroundings.
But my MacBook Pro and my Volkswagen Touareg and my Ikea Ektorp couch are not going to keep me from living – and dying – like everyone else.
My grandmother’s gasps for air left me with no choice. They forced me to watch the theater of death – or the theater of life, depending on your view – up close.
I have similar revelations often enough. Peeks that tear away the shroud of comfort I’ve built for myself. The glimpse of a worn-out mother’s belly, flabby and white, as she lifts groceries into a beat-up Toyota Sienna; the tired look on a gray-haired woman’s face as she sucks on a cigarette while passing me on the highway; an old man’s pained expression as he decides on the store-brand pickles.
Most days, I can banish these visions from my mind. I think, if I can busy myself with the day-to-day of tweeting and writing and talking and watching and reading and eating and drinking, that I won’t have to worry about these things. I can pretend that I’m not an animal – that I am engaged in loftier pursuits.
But when it’s my grandmother, and when I have to watch the very real, and very inescapable process of dying up close…
Well, then, it’s harder.
None of us actually thinks he’s going to cheat death. What we do think – at least, what I think we think – is that we can put off thinking about it, if we just stay busy.
I suppose we can – it works to distract ourselves. Most of the time. But the part not covered by “most of the time” – to borrow from the movie Greenberg – sucks. In those moments – when we are returned to the cold, bleak reality of our pointless and fleeting existences – the descent is crushing.
In reaction, we prevent ourselves from going there very often. We stay above it all, clinging to the pastimes – the NFL, and the Budweiser, and the sending of text messages to members of the opposite sex – that kept us from having those thoughts in the first place.
I can’t say if this is right or wrong, because I don’t know. On one hand, it could be said that it isn’t healthy to delude ourselves. Our delusions make the moments when we are faced with the grim realities of life all the more devastating.
But on the other, these delusions are a natural reaction. And we, as organisms, are pretty good at figuring out what’s good for keeping us alive. One needed only sit next to me in my grandmother’s room, as her frail body fought to keep breathing, even as her mind told it to let go, to know that we are nothing if not good at staying alive.
So maybe our brains know something we don’t, if you’ll pardon the contradiction in terms. Maybe it’s for the best that, when this is all over, I’ll go back to hosting dinner parties and agonizing over the future with my girlfriend.
Actually, there’s no maybe about it. I’m sure I will.
But then, when things slow down and I’m given time to think – when I’m at the movies and I watch an argument over who’s paying for the ticket, or when I’m waiting in a restaurant and I watch a waitress who’s been crying walk by – my friend will be back. He’ll laugh. He’ll wink.
And I will be frightened. Not because he’s Death. He’s not the Grim Reaper or the Devil or God.
He’s much scarier than any of those monsters. Or maybe he’s all of those monsters. But I prefer to call him by another name – the scariest name of all:
Reality.
Reality is what scared me in my grandmother’s room. The Reality of death and, in turn, the Reality of life – that our lives are spent trying to put off thoughts of our deaths.
I think there may be a larger lesson in here somewhere. Something about how the beauty of age and wisdom is that you come to terms with this specter named Reality. But I am neither old nor wise, which means that I haven’t figured it out yet.
For now, I will return to what I’ve been doing, which is to wait for calls from my mother, knowing that one of them will be the end. And I’ll do my best to prepare myself for Reality, because I know that, even if I escape his clutches again this time, he’ll be back.
Note: The bulk of this piece was written on Wednesday, August 25, 2010. Mary L. Kaelson Shook Maddox died the next morning.
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Well written Paul, sorry for your loss.
Beautifully written.
This especially struck me, as I have always selfishly thought that being left behind may be harder than leaving: “Why should I be struggling so? I wasn’t the one dying.”
Condolences to you and yours.
Greatly written. Ever since becoming a father, I have been consumed with my own mortality. I’ve concluded that it comes from the belief that my “replacements” on Earth are here, and there is finally someone here who I am “supposed” to die before. It is quite jarring, and I’ve come to understand religious people better, death is a bit easier to take when you convince yourself there is something wonderful at the end.
Paul, I’m very sorry to hear about your Grandma. My condolences go out to you and your family.
Wes
Reminiscent of the mood conjured by Don Delillo in White Noise. Thoughts, anyone?
Paul, sorry for your loss. I recently lost my grandfather and had many of the same thoughts you expressed in this article.
And pragmatism, it’s called tact, try having some. In going on your rant against Paul as he writes about his dying grandmother, you’ve done exactly what you criticize him for – being offensive and incompassionate just for the hell of it. I’m not saying you don’t have the right to your opinion, but this was not the best time to voice it.
got it bowski. shirley deserves the tact that the suffering hatians did not. you know, but for his hateful screed we wouldn’t be having this conversation. as always, the lesson to be learned at this site is accountability for all. except for poor poor paulie. he’s somehow exempt. you do him no favors by enabling him.
You know pragmatism, i always thought you were too harsh on paul. but as i read all of his blogs, you really understand what an incredible narcissist he is. i was thinking the exact same thing you said, for a note about his dying grandma, he makes this all about him. sorry to say paul, i’ve for some reason always been a big fan. in truth however, you are a pathetic little spoiled rich kid, and none of your self-centered philosophizing will ever change that. you are very good at pretending to be smart. you in fact are not half as important as you seem to think you are. you were a borderline professional basketball player, you’re a vastly overrated(by yourself) music reviewer, and you are an arrogant and poor writer. you are a waste. that is all theres to it. a waste of space. anybody who is related to you or friends with you should be thoroughly ashamed
Pragmatism doesn’t have time for your insults towards him. He’s busy hating Paul for his Haiti article which was written in late January. Granted, it’s now September but the Haiti piece isn’t the only thing he hates that’s current. Pragmatism still writes letters to the director of the movie “SPLASH” for its unbelievable plot. He recently discovered that we didn’t technically win the Vietnam war, so he’s also busy protesting that. Plus, who will bring a voice to the unfair wages offered to Henry Ford’s assembly workers. If it wasn’t for Paul Shirley’s racism, Pragmatism would have killed Billy the Kid, ended the Civil War, and cured the Black Plague. Soooooooo, I think we should leave Pragmatism alone to deal with his “current events”
I get it, Pragmatism will respond with the fire of 1,000 gays…so I’m counting down the minutes for his rebuttal.
Sorry for your loss. I agree that we should all recognize and accept death. This realization makes living life that much more special. It also makes us realize that it is important to spend time with those who you care for in moments of life rather than in moments of death.
i was unaware that a statute of limitations exists for criticism. interesting. way to conflate the but-for test and pure speculation. it makes for a nice false equivalence, rectally stuffed things.
Pragmatism – Doesn’t it become painfully ironic that you work so hard to bash someone for so-called narcissism in an attempt to achieve your own self-affirmation? Did mommy and daddy not give you enough allowance, gold stars and “I love you’s” as a young up-and-coming burden to society?
Question: Does the Haiti article still bother you 8 months later because he spoke ill of your poor, defenseless little Haitians or because he was simply 100% correct in the assessment of the situation?
You made the choice to attack an article about the introspective and self-reflection an author had about his passing grandmother and bash it for “narcissism”? Even such an esteemed literary critic such as yourself should be able to see how truly stupid that is? What’s next? Can we look forward to your riveting article condemning Hamlet for its lack of slapstick throughout?
That brings me to the most confusing anomaly about you and people like your fellow mental midget (oh, sorry, mental little person) Jon. You complain about the writings 8 months ago and you complain about this article. Here’s a helpful life tip for you free of charge: If you don’t like a particular author for their views or writing style, then stop reading and move on to someone else! Do you realize what a walking contradiction you are if you say how much you hate a particular author, yet you read everything he ever writes? You have to be a special type of moron to do what you do. Do you go to Mcdonald’s every day to tell them how unhealthy their food is and then order the #1, super-sized, with a diet Coke?
Your posts don’t impress anyone. All they do is allow you scream the following sentence to the web: “I am Pragmatism and I have nothing better to do with my life than read an author I hate and then whine about his content.”
Please, do us all a favor and go back to your Steven Colbert Fan Club message boards and finish jacking off to your 8×10 glossy of Glen Beck.
shorter marky: LEAVE PAUL SHIRLEY ALONE. post a link to the youtube when you make it.
let’s unpack the idiocy contained in your post. you begin with speculation about my motives and my past. you have to premise your argument with inventions to fit your narrative. not a good start mark.
next you masquerade your opinion of the entirety of paul’s haiti posts being “100% right” as fact. lovely. even shirley himself has admitted the shortcomings in his writing. but let’s pretend that he did not. do you really think the events that followed the publication of his post would have happened if he were objectively “100% right”?
next you present a false choice. its not an either or proposition. i can choose to ignore his writing or respond positively or not respond at all or respond negatively, or any combination of the responses, or do something else. regardless, i note your objection to my actions but i will continue to do so. but, you are always free to take your own advice and not read my posts.
next there is more speculation about me trying to impress people.
then you end with a conundrum. what would a denizen of the stephen colbert message boards be doing with a 8×10 of glenn beck? i suppose it would be the teatard who doesn’t realize that colbert is mocking his beliefs?
as joe said, paul’s narcissism shows in 95% of his writing. not just this supposed self reflection. he can grieve however he wants, but when he publishes it the door for comment is opened. some people choose to celebrate a person’s life. what i got from this piece is that he can’t celebrate because he didn’t even know her although she lived close.
lovely.
I am not actually hung up on the haiti article, I have a problem with almost every one of his posts. This is purely a form of entertainment to me. You know, something so ridiculous you can read it based on that alone? Paul is a narcissistic racist, there’s no real arguing that. You don’t have to read the Haiti article to understand he’s a racist, nor do you have to read this article to understand he’s a narcissist. If you read almost any of his posts, the fact that he’s a racist and narcissist comes blazing through. You simply cannot make as many race-related comments that are completely unnecessary as often as paul and his brother matt do without being a racist. Surely you get that marky kgb? Or are you really as stupid as you sound?
Paul, I doubt you even read these comments anymore. Just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your honesty in all of your articles. They are simply your take on things that occur in your life. I fail to see how that is narcissistic.
I think MARKY_KGB said it perfectly. I’ll give everyone the condensed version…”pragmatism is a broken record.”
Condolences for your loss, Paul.
Yes, death of someone close (and sometimes someone we don’t even know) does bring that imperative of pondering of one’s own mortality. Which is not negative in itself. As long as we get the message out of it: yes, we are all mortal, we will all die, but in the mean time, let’s try our best to LIVE. Thinking about this unavoidable reality called death takes away from the living. We will all die, and there’s nothing anyone can do. What we do in the meantime, is what matters. Cliche? Sure. But it’s also true.
As for you being a narcissist. One could argue that you are, since you continue to let your faithful stalker put his already miserable life on hold, as he religiously waits for your every new blog entry to somehow give his life somewhat of a meaning. One could also argue you’re mean in not blocking his IP, and letting him continually make an idiot out of himself, always to the same tune. I’ve come to a realization I fully support this form of meanness now. One could also argue you’re patronizing him by allowing him to try to impress you, week in and week out, month in and month out, with his faithful, always on time, and many times over, repetitive Groundhog Day commentary.
At least he has you and Haiti in his miserable life. Who knows, otherwise, we’d read about Breaking News with him being a protagonist in some mass shooting.
@Jon:
Wow, only 4 mentions of ”racist”? You’re gonna have to do better than this if you wanna earn some shinny monies from SPLC for your trolling attempts to discredit Paul.
The word is out-played and has no impact anymore. Scary, isn’t it?
@ Jon:
I have a problem with almost every one of his posts. This is purely a form of entertainment to me.
LMAO! Your tribe has a special form of entertainment. You’re entertained by what you have a problem with, and you read it all the time.
What kinda numbskull reads, over and over again, what he has a problem with, and claims it to even be his entertainment.
Geez.
Paul, I doubt you even read these comments anymore. Just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your honesty in all of your articles. They are simply your take on things that occur in your life. I fail to see how that is narcissistic.
It’s not narcissistic. Paul is a white man, who dared to speak the truth, out in public, went against The Machine, against Powers that be, and they are determined to undermine and destroy everything he does from now on. No matter what he writes about, the rats are here to distract, discriminate and destroy the man. Cohens spoke against him, lobbied for Paul to be banned from giving public opinion. The trolls here make sure they cast doubt via lowest form of discreditation of Paul into readers’ minds.
Speaking the Truth in times of universal deceit is a revolutionary act.
Let’s support Paul in his speaking of the truth.
@Stalker:
i can choose to ignore his writing or respond positively or not respond at all or respond negatively, or any combination of the responses, or do something else.
No. You can’t.
Very sorry for your loss and that of your family.