Wednesday, October 03, 2012

Make Memories... Don't Be One


Have you had your annual mammogram yet? I hope so. One simple test can mean the difference between making memories... or being one. It's as simple as that.

How would I know? On the morning of October 30, 1993, my phone rang at 5 AM. It was my grandfather, in tears, telling me that my grandmother had died in his arms a short while before. Irene Brookshier had just lost her fight with breast cancer. My grandfather had just lost his partner of sixty years.

My grandmother (left) circa 1922
My mother was a librarian, and I grew up in the village library, but the roots of my love of reading lead straight back to Irene Brookshier, my maternal grandmother. She was a bright, intelligent young girl with blue black hair who, once she caught sight of my happy-go-lucky, handsome grandfather, fell in love and never looked back.

The Depression lingered on in our part of central Illinois. Times were tough when my mother was born in 1935, and she and my grandparents lived in a room in the old hotel on Main Street. During World War II, my grandmother worked in a factory in Decatur while my grandfather joined the Navy and fought in the South Pacific. She grew pale and quiet when letters from my grandfather didn't arrive, and she dealt with his horrendous nightmares when the war was over and he came home. In 1948, my grandfather was well on his way to becoming a master electrician, and they bought an old house in town.

My grandmother and me, 1955
I came on the scene as the only grandchild in 1955. As I went through old photos, I realized something. There are several of my grandmother and me when I was five-years-old or younger, but the more independent I became, the more I became Grampa's girl.

I worshiped my grandfather. I was a tomboy who preferred spending much of my free time outdoors with him instead of staying behind with my grandmother, whose weapon of choice was her sewing machine and her natural milieu her kitchen and flowerbeds. Homemaking was boring. I wanted to get out and explore. Sewing, weeding and cooking were not for me!

My mother and grandfather were outgoing, funny people, and I gravitated to them as naturally as breathing. My grandmother always seemed content to take a backseat to the three of us. Many people in town thought she was stuck up because she didn't socialize much outside the family. She just never seemed to have much to say to anyone she met on the street or in the store. It wasn't until I was eighteen and moving away to college that my grandmother and I ever really sat down and talked. That one short conversation was my first hint that my grandmother wasn't the person I'd grown up believing her to be.

My grandmother in Kentucky, 1991
The years passed. I moved to Arizona right after college graduation, and I kept in touch with my grandparents through letters and phone calls. But in 1991 it was as though a homing beacon had activated, and I found myself flying back to central Illinois to spend some time with my grandparents.

I drove them down to Lexington, Kentucky, and the three of us had a wonderful time exploring. As I watched my grandmother indulge in her favorite hobby of photography, I made a note to myself to buy a higher grade camera and start taking more photos. When we got back home to Moweaqua, my grandfather went to see how his garden outside of town had fared over the weekend, and my grandmother and I sat and talked. Really talked. It was the first sit-down conversation the two of us had ever had in which my grandmother treated me as an adult on equal terms. She told me family secrets that just aren't trusted to phone lines or paper, and my eyes were opened to things that had happened long before I was old enough to understand. I looked at my grandmother with new respect, as an adult, not as a grandmother. And I liked her.

My grandmother in her kitchen, 1991
In 1992 my mother drove back to Illinois, and after finishing up a training job for Target, I flew back. As usual my grandmother insisted on taking photos of us all. My mother was notorious for refusing to be in any photographs, but this time she demanded her share of time in front of the camera. My grandparents were shocked and thrilled. I looked at my mother and knew there was more to the story. There was.

Mom had had a premonition that this would be the last time the four of us would be together. She was right. Shortly afterwards my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and she had a radical mastectomy, followed by chemo and radiation. But they hadn't caught it in time, and at 5 AM on October 30, I got a phone call no one wants to receive.

My mother and I drove back to Illinois together. It was a cross country trip in miserably cold weather, and neither of us were in the mood to talk. The funeral service was surreal to me, and the weather was so bad that the few people who showed up didn't hang around long. After all, my grandmother had never had many friends, and it wasn't the sort of weather to be out in.

That evening my mother and grandfather ate quickly and went into the living room to watch television and grieve together. I was left at the kitchen table with my own thoughts and a mess to clean up. As I stood at the kitchen sink, my back aching because the counters were made for my five foot tall grandmother, not five foot ten me, I listened to the sad voices murmuring in the other room. And my mind began to wander.

It wandered down through all the years and all the meals when-- after the most cursory help-- my mother, grandfather and I would adjourn to the living room and leave my grandmother alone in the kitchen. My grandmother, who always seemed content to remain in the background. My grandmother who wasn't stuck up but shy. My grandmother who loved to read and was passionate about travel and genealogy and loved photography so much that she built her own dark room. All those years, all those meals, all those times we just left her there. Alone.

Did she ever feel like the hired help, as I did that night? Did she ever feel like taking out the trash and just walking down the alley, down the street... and never coming back? My mind flew through dozens of mental snapshots: we both loved books and flowers and birds and traveling just to see what was on the other side of the hill. We both started turning gray at a very young age. We both hated clutter and frilly clothes. Some people thought I was stuck up, and I wasn't... I was... shy.... Just. Like. My. Grandmother.

That's when it hit me. Although I'd tried, I could never be outgoing like my mother and grandfather. I often wondered why I didn't really fit in the family when all the time I did. I was just staring at the wrong two family members. I had my match right there all along.

I resemble my grandmother, intellectually and emotionally, more than I do anyone else in my family, and due to breast cancer and my own blindness, I was denied having a real relationship with her.

It's pointless to dwell on might-have-beens. Regrets are a waste of time. All I can do now is share this woman with all of you and urge everyone to do everything they can to be around for a good long time. Please... make memories, don't be one.




22 comments:

  1. Oh gosh, what a fabulous, fabulous post. Read every word. Sometimes it takes death to make us realise what we've lost and I also think it hits harder as we get older and think about it more. Lots of things make more sense as we age somehow. Thank you for sharing this with us.

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    1. Growing older all too often provides that "lovely" hindsight, doesn't it? I only think of my loved ones occasionally, although I know they're rooted in my mind. My mother and grandfather were very unhappy in their later years, so I always think of them as happy now. And my grandmother? Yes, she was taken too soon, but I know she perked up once my mother and grandfather joined her. Thinking of them as happy now helps me to remember all the good times and not to dwell on times that weren't so good.

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  2. What a lovely tribute to a wonderful woman. I'm sure she recognized herself in you and was immensely proud. By the way, I'm having my annual mammogram on Saturday.

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    1. Good for you, Kathy! It's an appointment that's all too easy to put off or forget about.

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  3. Such good advice, Cathy. My annual mammogram will be later this fall. Your story about your grandmother was beautiful. I know she was very proud of you.

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    1. Her spirit was probably hovering over me in the kitchen that night, and when the penny finally dropped and I realized how much alike we were, I can just hear her say, "Finally!"

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  4. Cathy - A lovely post and a wonderful tribute. Your grandmother sounds like a very, very special person. And your post has a very important reminder too. Easy to let that yearly exam slip by, but it needs to get done.

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    1. Yes, it does need to get done. Hopefully this means this is one appointment you've checked off your list!

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  5. Your post made me make a note to call for my mammogram appointment later today, when they open....

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    1. Good! There are many of us who want you around for a good long time, you know!

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  6. Cathy, This is a wonderfully written tribute to your grandmother. I was close to my maternal grandmother too and have many, many memories of her as you do your grandmother. As for mammograms, you know I'm definitely aware of the need to do this. Mine is set for next spring after my treatments are over.

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    1. Yes, you've certainly had a lot on your plate, but you're dealing with it all beautifully. Prayers and vibes and all that good stuff continue to wing their way to Pennsylvania.

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  7. That's a really great posting. Love the photos too. Makes me think of my grandparents lost long ago.

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    1. Grandparents can teach us so much, if we only pay attention. Glad you liked the post. :-)

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  8. I didn't really know either of my grandmothers as they both died when I was a young child. I so wish I had been able to talk to them as an older person - they were both very caring people.

    As my mother died of breast cancer I've always made sure I had a mammogram - but here in the UK they're only every three years. So it's important to check yourself too - as I found out last year months before my next mammogram was due. Although neither I nor my GP could feel a lump she sent me to the Breast Clinic because my breast had changed shape - just very slightly flattened on one side - and it was cancer. I've had treatment - lumpectomy and radiotherapy and am told the cancer has gone. Next mammogram is in March - I'm certainly making sure I keep that appointment

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    1. I think they recommend once a year here because breasts can undergo some very rapid changes, and doctors are all about early detection.

      Self-exams are very important, too, and I'm so glad you told all of us about your own experience, Margaret.

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  9. Cathy, what an absolutely beautiful tribute to your lovely grandmother. The conversations you two had together meant a great deal to her, I'm sure. And the trip to Kentucky and a lot more.

    I'm tearing up at I read this.

    I lost my 95-year-old mother in August, and it's surprising how that affects me in ways I don't even realize at the time. I thought she'd live forever. Even though she had dementia and I hadn't seen her for awhile, she was always in my mind.

    Thanks so much for sharing your memories and also for the mammogram reminder. I keep putting it off, and shouldn't as there's breast cancer in my family, but I'll try to do this soon.

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    1. Please... don't try-- do -- make and keep that appointment, Kathy. *HUG*

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  10. As Margaret said, mammograms are only recommended every 3 years in the UK as they are deemed to be too dangerous annually and likely to cause more problems. I've had to visit breast clinics a lot over the years for various thankfully benign lumps to be checked out and they do ultra sounds instead. They think that looking for changes like puckers and dimples is very important.
    I'm sure that your grandmother recognised herself in you when you were just a wee girl - and that must have been a lovely discovery for her. I'm also a quiet person, often mistaken for being standoffish and snobby.

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    1. One thing that I find very interesting is the differences you can find in health care between the US and the UK. My niece who lives outside Manchester told me that teeth cleaning (which is done every six months here in the US) is done either yearly or every 18 months, I can't remember which.

      One reason that I would side with the US recommendations is that my husband had a very rare and deadly form of colon cancer, which was detected early and taken care of. Denis has said more than once that if he'd still lived in the UK it never would've be caught so early.

      Just goes to show that you can ask 6 different doctors about one thing and get 10 different opinions. The problem is choosing which one to follow!

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  11. Wow, what a tender post. I feel like I was let into a sacred part of your memory and awareness. Thank you for sharing this thought, these feelings and this prodding to do what we should do to take care of ourselves.

    My friend in the next classroom has started walking this breast cancer journey this last month and we are walking it with her as best we can. It's prompted more than one of us to schedule those mammograms. This week we are attending Bras for a Cause and we'll be walking for our Peggy. Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts. It really touched my heart.

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    1. Thank YOU for scheduling that mammogram, Gaye. The light in this world would be dimmer without you in it.

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