Lately, I go back to her last fleeting moments of life and think of what I could have done differently. I go back to her sunken, cold cheek with mine against hers. At the time, I thought it was wet with mine and my sister's tears; later I found it was for a more morbid reason. In my thought, I shake her awake instead of telling her it is okay to go. I scream for a doctor instead of pushing them away.
I daily regret my presence in that room that left me with memories that haunt my dreams, while wishing terribly that I could return for one last kiss before she disappears.
I find myself, nightly, in the fetal position with an intense twinge in my abdomine though I spend much time on the bathroom floor, wet with tears, holding my head to keep it from crashing.
When I am with my family I am quite literally screaming to myself, telling them that everything inside is slowly fading to oblivion. "I AM DYING IN HERE TO TELL YOU THAT I ACHE IN REMEMBRANCE! CANT YOU HEAR THE PAIN ECHOING, FILLING THIS ENTIRE ROOM! IS ANYONE LISTENING!"
No one is listening, no one is noticing.
Instead, I jokingly say "Do you think Grandmother will mind if I borrow this?" People find it insensitive, yet humorous, like myself.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A Letter to Mr. Lowdermilk
Dear CV Lowdermilk,
Let me begin by thanking you for your unyielding friendship and generosity over the past 4 years. You and your wife have truly been a blessing.
I am writing you to confess. Though the roses you bring in to my little coffee shop are refreshing and a delightful touch of elegance, I have been swiping one or two here or there as I walk out of the door at the end of my shift in order to put them to better use. It is me; I openly admit it.
I appologize for the gradual disappearance, but also write to say that not only do I lack regret for my theft but plan to continue in my thieving as roses are a bit pricey for my barista purse. Blame the Harrisburg residents and their reluctance to drop their spare change into my jar labeled "Thanks a Latte!".
Not only are your delicious smelling roses free and in convenient abundance, I appreciate that they come from a wholesome garden where each one is tended to regularly and with precision, rather than the impersonal, dollar-driven haste that is the Metrolina Greenhouses of Charlotte, NC.
I have been guilty of this childlike crime two times as of today, though I feel that you will not hesitate to forgive my behavior when I tell you that my grandmother has enjoyed them immensely! I take one to her and chat awhile as usual, letting her know the goings on of my life and expressing my acceptance that she had to leave but also my tremendous grief that she has gone away.
Do not worry, I tie a giraffe print ribbon around each one so that she knows precisely who they come from without an ounce of wonder.
I ask that you keep this little whisper between the two of us, no matter how insignificant you find this confession. I do not want my family to know how uselessly, commiserably weak I remain after my loss.
Thank you and please bring more of those lovely peach colored roses she finds so imposing.
With Sincerity,
Casey Howie
Let me begin by thanking you for your unyielding friendship and generosity over the past 4 years. You and your wife have truly been a blessing.
I am writing you to confess. Though the roses you bring in to my little coffee shop are refreshing and a delightful touch of elegance, I have been swiping one or two here or there as I walk out of the door at the end of my shift in order to put them to better use. It is me; I openly admit it.
I appologize for the gradual disappearance, but also write to say that not only do I lack regret for my theft but plan to continue in my thieving as roses are a bit pricey for my barista purse. Blame the Harrisburg residents and their reluctance to drop their spare change into my jar labeled "Thanks a Latte!".
Not only are your delicious smelling roses free and in convenient abundance, I appreciate that they come from a wholesome garden where each one is tended to regularly and with precision, rather than the impersonal, dollar-driven haste that is the Metrolina Greenhouses of Charlotte, NC.
I have been guilty of this childlike crime two times as of today, though I feel that you will not hesitate to forgive my behavior when I tell you that my grandmother has enjoyed them immensely! I take one to her and chat awhile as usual, letting her know the goings on of my life and expressing my acceptance that she had to leave but also my tremendous grief that she has gone away.
Do not worry, I tie a giraffe print ribbon around each one so that she knows precisely who they come from without an ounce of wonder.
I ask that you keep this little whisper between the two of us, no matter how insignificant you find this confession. I do not want my family to know how uselessly, commiserably weak I remain after my loss.
Thank you and please bring more of those lovely peach colored roses she finds so imposing.
With Sincerity,
Casey Howie
Friday, August 6, 2010
Butterflies
The day that my grandmother died, a part of me held tight to her back and flew to Heaven with her. It must have been the only part of me that had an ounce of good, because Ive not been myself since. It's guilt really. Every time I laugh or smile too big, eat a good meal, get a good night's sleep (you would think these would be fewer but death will exhaust you), have a single thought that isnt morbid or dismal..I feel guilt. I ought to be sobbing, shouldn't I?
The fact is, though I maneuver about the day holding what I have described to some as a cinderblock tied to my heart, the only real sobbing I have allowed myself to surrender to is at night when I feel confident no one can hear accept for maybe Jesus himself.
I guess Ill start from the beginning.
It is suggested that my grandmother fell on a Thursday. I could tell she had been having an increasing amount of difficulty making it to the bathroom. I noticed her pile of soiled laundry peeking out from the bathroom door and though I knew it would embarass her to mention the clothes, I did anyway. The thing is, if she couldn't do the laundry herself, I thought that my harassment might cause her to do what Ive always wanted her to do, that she has never done...ask me for help. I feel confident she was doing laundry when she fell. On Sunday, in the emergency room (which really shouldnt be called this at all for reasons I might describe later), she told me two things that she felt for certain. 1. It was the year 1976. This I nearly believed, mainly because Im naive and desperate for her enough that I always believe what she says as truth. 2. She was doing laundry the night she fell. Ironically enough, on this day I bought and planned to read my first Bible.
On Monday Im in her hospital room before she is. Out for tests of course. They never told me if she passed though Im sure she recieved flying colors. I hear an elderly woman as Im sitting, staring at my feet in a 65 degree holding cell of a living space (or dieing space, whichever). "It sounds like her, it could be her"; I can't hide the beaming smile across my face as I literally run to the door to greet her. It isn't her. All elderly women do sort of sound the same you know. When she arrives I notice for the first time how terribly, Hollocaustilly thin she is. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Her eyes are of misery and I can't understand why she isn't politely joking back with me as I say "Oh! I thought you went to the Whale's Tale without me!!" (This is her favorite memory, her favorite place to go back to over coffee and cigarettes while CMT plays in the background of the story of her favorite summer). Her eyes are still a cat like hazel, but no one is in there. I don't understand.
It isn't until 12 hours (seriously) of watching her in pain that I understand. My dreams of visiting her in a cozy nursing home as a best case scenario are in vain. I understand on this day that she won't be leaving this room. I open the Bible to page 1 "In the beginning..."
My dad sits with me on Tuesday. I hate this. Even in the best of circumstances he is a drama queen. You can imagine how this devastation turns into his most theatrical performance as of yet. Even still I ignore his accusations that since Im not also crying rivers that "I don't understand." Funny thing is, I understood very well that my grandmother was only leaving that bed to rest in another eternally--at this time, he did not know this. When the doctor arrives on this day he is beyond courteous. He perhaps taught the lesson on bedside manner, because I love him immediately. This is when he breaks the news to my dad, the news I "didn't understand"--that she was dieing. She wasn't coming home. I hum hymns, hold her hand, and read on.
Do you remember when you might have had a hurt finger or something of the like, so you tell someone and they say they can make that feeling go away, then proceed to punch you in the arm? Watching someone die taught me this holds true with emotional pain as well. On Wednesday, when the nurse came in and explained to me what comfort care was and unhooked the IV, I thought this was the most difficult moment of my life. It suddenly became very real. When I walked in to the room at 11:30 pm and watched as she took her final 2, maybe 3 breaths, this still was not the most difficult of moments. I was surprisingly selfless and stroked her forehead, held her hand, hugged my face to her chest, and told her to let go. I wish I could get the sound of her deep, laborious breaths out of my head. I cannot yet. I started trying at 11:46pm when I heard her take her last.
Funeral arrangements were easier than I thought. I chose her flowers, what songs would play at the service. The only thing I kept my mouth shut about was the casket. My dad walked into the "showroom" (this reminds me of cars, I wish I had gotten a new car that day, anyways...) and browsed for a solid 45 seconds before deciding on a slate, carolina blueish casket for about 2,000 dollars. I could see this was something he felt strongly about, so I said nothing. (I would have also chosen the slate blue casket).
On the day of the funeral I held it together nicely. She didn't look like the usual creepy dead body; really, she looked like a prettier version of my grandmother. Made up and wearing pearl earrings I hadn't seen her put on in years. This is where the above mentioned punching of the arm to relieve the pain of the finger comes in. It was not until the preacher informed me that he would be closing the casket that I experienced the worst moment of my life so far. At this moment, any pain my heart had felt prior, suddenly seemed like a single blade of grass amongst a world made of green landscape. It seemed like nothing! It was nothing!
I collapsed into a ball of...it sort of felt like watching the wicked witch as she melts. That's how I picture this scene. I forgot that I was in a crowd of quiet, somber strangers; I just let it out. I wish I could have lost it a little more, because I have to tell you it felt pretty good. Later, I was embarassed and hoped no one saw.
I went to see her gravesite today for the first time. The dirt looked fresh & the flowers didnt. Just as you'd imagine.
I didn't get enough there, so I drove to her house and walked in the door and said as usual, "GRANDMOTHERRRRR, It's meee Caseeeeyyy!" I sat where I usually sit with the lamp on as usual and looked over at her couch and pretended to have a conversation with her. I know that I have lost my fucking mind; I knew it at this moment.
I notice butterflies now more than I ever did. Is the growing amount of flying color a sign that she is still watching me? No..it is a sign that I have been so consumed in myself that I have never noticed them before.
I pretend the yellow one is her. The black one is me. We are finally free. We are at the Whale's Tale.
The fact is, though I maneuver about the day holding what I have described to some as a cinderblock tied to my heart, the only real sobbing I have allowed myself to surrender to is at night when I feel confident no one can hear accept for maybe Jesus himself.
I guess Ill start from the beginning.
It is suggested that my grandmother fell on a Thursday. I could tell she had been having an increasing amount of difficulty making it to the bathroom. I noticed her pile of soiled laundry peeking out from the bathroom door and though I knew it would embarass her to mention the clothes, I did anyway. The thing is, if she couldn't do the laundry herself, I thought that my harassment might cause her to do what Ive always wanted her to do, that she has never done...ask me for help. I feel confident she was doing laundry when she fell. On Sunday, in the emergency room (which really shouldnt be called this at all for reasons I might describe later), she told me two things that she felt for certain. 1. It was the year 1976. This I nearly believed, mainly because Im naive and desperate for her enough that I always believe what she says as truth. 2. She was doing laundry the night she fell. Ironically enough, on this day I bought and planned to read my first Bible.
On Monday Im in her hospital room before she is. Out for tests of course. They never told me if she passed though Im sure she recieved flying colors. I hear an elderly woman as Im sitting, staring at my feet in a 65 degree holding cell of a living space (or dieing space, whichever). "It sounds like her, it could be her"; I can't hide the beaming smile across my face as I literally run to the door to greet her. It isn't her. All elderly women do sort of sound the same you know. When she arrives I notice for the first time how terribly, Hollocaustilly thin she is. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Her eyes are of misery and I can't understand why she isn't politely joking back with me as I say "Oh! I thought you went to the Whale's Tale without me!!" (This is her favorite memory, her favorite place to go back to over coffee and cigarettes while CMT plays in the background of the story of her favorite summer). Her eyes are still a cat like hazel, but no one is in there. I don't understand.
It isn't until 12 hours (seriously) of watching her in pain that I understand. My dreams of visiting her in a cozy nursing home as a best case scenario are in vain. I understand on this day that she won't be leaving this room. I open the Bible to page 1 "In the beginning..."
My dad sits with me on Tuesday. I hate this. Even in the best of circumstances he is a drama queen. You can imagine how this devastation turns into his most theatrical performance as of yet. Even still I ignore his accusations that since Im not also crying rivers that "I don't understand." Funny thing is, I understood very well that my grandmother was only leaving that bed to rest in another eternally--at this time, he did not know this. When the doctor arrives on this day he is beyond courteous. He perhaps taught the lesson on bedside manner, because I love him immediately. This is when he breaks the news to my dad, the news I "didn't understand"--that she was dieing. She wasn't coming home. I hum hymns, hold her hand, and read on.
Do you remember when you might have had a hurt finger or something of the like, so you tell someone and they say they can make that feeling go away, then proceed to punch you in the arm? Watching someone die taught me this holds true with emotional pain as well. On Wednesday, when the nurse came in and explained to me what comfort care was and unhooked the IV, I thought this was the most difficult moment of my life. It suddenly became very real. When I walked in to the room at 11:30 pm and watched as she took her final 2, maybe 3 breaths, this still was not the most difficult of moments. I was surprisingly selfless and stroked her forehead, held her hand, hugged my face to her chest, and told her to let go. I wish I could get the sound of her deep, laborious breaths out of my head. I cannot yet. I started trying at 11:46pm when I heard her take her last.
Funeral arrangements were easier than I thought. I chose her flowers, what songs would play at the service. The only thing I kept my mouth shut about was the casket. My dad walked into the "showroom" (this reminds me of cars, I wish I had gotten a new car that day, anyways...) and browsed for a solid 45 seconds before deciding on a slate, carolina blueish casket for about 2,000 dollars. I could see this was something he felt strongly about, so I said nothing. (I would have also chosen the slate blue casket).
On the day of the funeral I held it together nicely. She didn't look like the usual creepy dead body; really, she looked like a prettier version of my grandmother. Made up and wearing pearl earrings I hadn't seen her put on in years. This is where the above mentioned punching of the arm to relieve the pain of the finger comes in. It was not until the preacher informed me that he would be closing the casket that I experienced the worst moment of my life so far. At this moment, any pain my heart had felt prior, suddenly seemed like a single blade of grass amongst a world made of green landscape. It seemed like nothing! It was nothing!
I collapsed into a ball of...it sort of felt like watching the wicked witch as she melts. That's how I picture this scene. I forgot that I was in a crowd of quiet, somber strangers; I just let it out. I wish I could have lost it a little more, because I have to tell you it felt pretty good. Later, I was embarassed and hoped no one saw.
I went to see her gravesite today for the first time. The dirt looked fresh & the flowers didnt. Just as you'd imagine.
I didn't get enough there, so I drove to her house and walked in the door and said as usual, "GRANDMOTHERRRRR, It's meee Caseeeeyyy!" I sat where I usually sit with the lamp on as usual and looked over at her couch and pretended to have a conversation with her. I know that I have lost my fucking mind; I knew it at this moment.
I notice butterflies now more than I ever did. Is the growing amount of flying color a sign that she is still watching me? No..it is a sign that I have been so consumed in myself that I have never noticed them before.
I pretend the yellow one is her. The black one is me. We are finally free. We are at the Whale's Tale.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Hunt to Kill
There are so many things in this life that I have no control over. The very fact that I am alive I had no say in.
But with a gun in my hand that has the power to shoot right through a living thing and take its life, I have a little control.
This is why I love the hunt. I sit, I wait where I cant be seen. In a little while some unsuspecting animal will tip toe in line with the barrel & Ill finally have a choice. Its innocent eyes will look right at mine & that's when I decide her fate. Life or death is in my sweating hands.
& then the sick rush of pulling the trigger. Finally, control.
But with a gun in my hand that has the power to shoot right through a living thing and take its life, I have a little control.
This is why I love the hunt. I sit, I wait where I cant be seen. In a little while some unsuspecting animal will tip toe in line with the barrel & Ill finally have a choice. Its innocent eyes will look right at mine & that's when I decide her fate. Life or death is in my sweating hands.
& then the sick rush of pulling the trigger. Finally, control.
Monday, May 31, 2010
NY Summer Begins
11 hours of interestate highway later, I am welcomed by a sign that foreshadows a quaint little town called LeRoy when a smell hits me that could not have come a second too soon.
It's cow shit.
Usually I would drive right by this smell and not have even noticed it; maybe if the summer sun were hot enough it would force me to roll up my windows. Today, in LeRoy, NY, I rolled the windows down, looked at Tim with the smile of a 5 year old, and said "I'm not so far from home after all".
Now you may find this scene comical, but it is exactly what I needed as I reluctantly rode into this foreign town. This smell made it possible to hold back the tears and realize that this move was not such a stretch for me after all. There were horses and diner dives, mobile home parks, and miles of corn fields. You see, maybe home isn't 9560 Hickory Ridge Rd. Maybe home is where I find these things that make me feel like myself.
It's cow shit.
Usually I would drive right by this smell and not have even noticed it; maybe if the summer sun were hot enough it would force me to roll up my windows. Today, in LeRoy, NY, I rolled the windows down, looked at Tim with the smile of a 5 year old, and said "I'm not so far from home after all".
Now you may find this scene comical, but it is exactly what I needed as I reluctantly rode into this foreign town. This smell made it possible to hold back the tears and realize that this move was not such a stretch for me after all. There were horses and diner dives, mobile home parks, and miles of corn fields. You see, maybe home isn't 9560 Hickory Ridge Rd. Maybe home is where I find these things that make me feel like myself.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
stifling summer evenings
I used to paint. Organic things, mainly flowers, limbs or trees, etc. I painted because I felt like I had something in me that needed out but I couldnt speak it. I am there again as I contemplate wedding ideas. I have a vision that I cant put into words.
I browse these wedding sites and look under headings such as Flowers, Venues, Dresses. The more I look at these the more I realize that these people have no idea how to satisfy a woman whos main goal in life can be summed up in one word -simplicity.
I dont want to spend a lot of money, not because I dont have it (tho I dont) but because that just isn't me. I dont need to rent out Panthers stadium or have flowers shipped from across the world. I dont need the perfect dress; I dont know the difference between baby doll and sweetheart nor do i care what snotty woman or homosexual male made it. There has got to be a way to compromise cost without compromising class.
I can tell you this, it will be outside on a stifling summer evening. There will be music & laughter & candles but most importantly, I will be barefoot... because this is how a girl ought to spend a stifling summer evening.
I browse these wedding sites and look under headings such as Flowers, Venues, Dresses. The more I look at these the more I realize that these people have no idea how to satisfy a woman whos main goal in life can be summed up in one word -simplicity.
I dont want to spend a lot of money, not because I dont have it (tho I dont) but because that just isn't me. I dont need to rent out Panthers stadium or have flowers shipped from across the world. I dont need the perfect dress; I dont know the difference between baby doll and sweetheart nor do i care what snotty woman or homosexual male made it. There has got to be a way to compromise cost without compromising class.
I can tell you this, it will be outside on a stifling summer evening. There will be music & laughter & candles but most importantly, I will be barefoot... because this is how a girl ought to spend a stifling summer evening.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I don't have much against New York. Okay, so they talk funny, but they think I talk funny too. Okay, so they eat strange food, then again they think I eat strange food too. Okay, but the weather sucks; Ive definitely got'tem there!
Ill go ahead and state the facts: Im the hero of my family. Im my mom's best friend; she comes to me for advice, to vent, to gossip, and for help with my unhelpable sister. Im my dad's saving grace; I make him laugh, I calm him down, I pick up slack, but I ignore him when he's venting about my unhelpable sister. Even my sister who is embarassed by me in all ways possible comes to me as a last resort when it comes to matters of school and work. My grandmother tells me things and confides in me in a way she does with no one else; I stand as the interpreter between her and the rest of the world. My stepfather Todd finds me funny, & I enjoy reminding him that he is a remarkable person and father.
As much as the pressure of wearing the S across my chest brings me down, I secretly love feeling needed. If I move to NY even for the 3 months that separate me from the new school year, who will save my family?
Sure, my dad looks forward to my company, but he looks forward to cooked meals, a clean house, and having a nurse to take care of my elderly grandmother. My mom will miss my company & that's all; she'll miss me at church or when she goes to the mall :] My grandmother will miss my visits too, though I could tell her I was there last week and she'd have no choice but to believe me over her failing memory. My sister won't miss me at all though she'll call to see if Im losing the weight I promised her I would. Todd will be childless; ignored by his other kids, lonely without me there to humor him and hang out on the farm.
But do I have a duty to my fiance'? I think deep down I know what I have to do.
Ill go ahead and state the facts: Im the hero of my family. Im my mom's best friend; she comes to me for advice, to vent, to gossip, and for help with my unhelpable sister. Im my dad's saving grace; I make him laugh, I calm him down, I pick up slack, but I ignore him when he's venting about my unhelpable sister. Even my sister who is embarassed by me in all ways possible comes to me as a last resort when it comes to matters of school and work. My grandmother tells me things and confides in me in a way she does with no one else; I stand as the interpreter between her and the rest of the world. My stepfather Todd finds me funny, & I enjoy reminding him that he is a remarkable person and father.
As much as the pressure of wearing the S across my chest brings me down, I secretly love feeling needed. If I move to NY even for the 3 months that separate me from the new school year, who will save my family?
Sure, my dad looks forward to my company, but he looks forward to cooked meals, a clean house, and having a nurse to take care of my elderly grandmother. My mom will miss my company & that's all; she'll miss me at church or when she goes to the mall :] My grandmother will miss my visits too, though I could tell her I was there last week and she'd have no choice but to believe me over her failing memory. My sister won't miss me at all though she'll call to see if Im losing the weight I promised her I would. Todd will be childless; ignored by his other kids, lonely without me there to humor him and hang out on the farm.
But do I have a duty to my fiance'? I think deep down I know what I have to do.
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