Perspective

My grandmother died today.

I'm more upset than I thought I would be. Or at least the finality of seeing the words in silly Times New Roman Serif made me realize that I actually am a bit upset by this. Commence diarrhea of the keyboard.

I have a great family. My parents have been married for something like 55 years. I am the youngest (by far) of 4 kids, with 5 nieces and 1 nephew. And 1 grand-niece (or is it great? I can't remember). My upbringing was standard Southern. Every Sunday we went to church, and in the afternoon we went to Grandma and Granddaddy's house.

I think I was 14 or so before I ever knew my grandparents' given names. Vera Dover Wyatt and George Dargin Wyatt. Dargin is one of those peculiar Southern names that we tend to saddle our children with in hopes that it will somehow connect them with something in their heritage. To date, I think it has only every worked with wealthy closeted homosexual men in Charleston or Richmond. I know that I have never felt any kinship with my ancestry by being handcuffed to the middle name Givens all my life (apparently my maternal great-grandmother was Willie Givens Feemster, a truly unfortunate and non-euphonious collection of syllables). But I digress.

Ever Sunday we would go to Grandma and Grandaddy's house, where I would play in the toy room with odd assorted leftover toys and whatever I brought with me to amuse myself and any of my cousins that happened to be there. My mother is the oldest of 12 kids, so there was usually a cousin or two. Granddaddy scared me. He was a big, loud old man, who had a speech impediment, and didn't walk well due to a factory accident, so I never really understood anything he said, and he just always got louder. In retrospect, and he's been dead long enough I suppose I can be this irreverent, he sounded a lot like the fucked up guy from the movie Goonies. Grandaddy was also a drunk, but I didn't know that until much later.

Grandma however, was exactly what you think of when you think of a Southern Grandma. She was a slight woman, with white hair done up in curls tight to her head. She has a soft voice, and a slightly creaky drawl that always made my name polysyllabic (a feat which cannot be accomplished above the Mason-Dixon line). "Jo-uhn," she called me, or to distinguish between my father and me, "Jo-uhn Givins." I never minded my middle name from Grandma, it's just how it was. For a while she tried Little John, but that lasted until I was about 13. My dad is about 5'9" on a good day, and I'm significantly less than "little."

She always asked how I was doing in school, and as I went along in years and moved out of the house, I only saw her at reunions and Christmas. Even then, she would always ask about the last girlfriend, or, eventually, my wife. Then she'd ask when were going to have kids (a question reserved for old relatives, anybody else can bugger off!), and from her I never minded. You never minded anything from a woman so gentle. There was iron in her, though. There had to be to raise 12 kids through the Depression, with a husband who was a drunk, and sometimes mean. She did what she had to do to raise those kids, and they all turned out pretty good.

A few years ago, I realized that she had no idea who I was. Not in some great philosophical differences way, in an Alzheimer's kind of "now which grandchild are you?" kind of way. That was ugly. Three years ago was our last Christmas with the whole family. Grandma was put into a nursing home the week between Christmas and New Year's.

I never visited.

I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't look into those vacant eyes and know that she didn't know me. I thought that my memories of her would be left intact by that fact, but I was so absolutely fucking wrong and it tears my goddamn guts out. I went to see my grandfather to get closure, and watching him lay in the hospital bed out of his mind was so bad that I thought it would be better to just remember Grandma how she used to be. But I don't. All I remember is two days after Christmas, 2000, in the basement fellowship hall of my aunt's church, giving my grandmother a hug and a kiss, and her looking at me and saying "Now which one of Frances' boys are you?"

So it didn't work. I didn't put enough distance to insulate myself from my grief, and I didn't do the things I should have done to not feel guilty today. And I can't ever change that. I know I loved that sweet little old woman, and I know that she loved me. And in the long run, yes, that is what matters. But I could have gone to visit. I could have sucked it up, dealt with the fact that she didn't know which grandchild I was, and brightened a lonely old woman's day with just a little bit of fucking effort on my part. But I didn't. No, I didn't put myself through the pain of seeing her alone in a nursing home. But I will carry around the guilt of ignoring that sweet old woman for a long time, and that's just the penalty for my mistake.

So go hug your grandma. Or your kids. Or whoever.

"Help somebody if you can. And get right with The Man." - Van Zant