My great grandma

     I thought about talking about my great grandma Dee at her memorial, but realized I'd probably end up crying and flustered, and not say anything I meant to. I sound much less crazy when I have the chance to write things down away from others. In fact, writing is really how I got to know my great grandma, despite living nearly 6 hours away.

     In the late 90s and early 2000s, we had a family email address, and the first person I ever emailed was my great grandma Dee. We emailed regularly; she loved that I'd learned to sew very young, and was very happy I was taking piano and dance lessons. She told me how much she loved dancing, but especially music. She told me music runs in our family in the same serious way people tell family members that freckles or red hair do. I told her about kid stuff; school, friends, activities, but she always answered without condescension, as though we were two people on equal footing.

     Dee's always been almost a legend of the family to me, the head chieftain. The first time I remember actually meeting her, I couldn't have been more than 4 years old- if that. I was eating a banana, and went to throw away a bruised bit. "Hey-no! We can make it into banana bread. Save that!" She bagged it and put it into her freezer. Later, as we were leaving, she gave me a small fabric coin purse. That same little purse is in my bag, and there's at least 4 frozen, bruised bananas in my freezer.

     Aside from emails, we visited Dee every couple years, making the 6 hour drive for birthdays and other family events. The drive was always worth it when you got to Dee by the sea and looked out onto the beach with bright spots of people and glittering waves. My own sweet grammo would grab me, "Mom, you remember my granddaughter, Tuesday? Chris' girl?" One time she looked indignant, "Of course, I remember ALL my grandbabies!" 

     If she truly did remember everyone's names, it would be quite a feat- she had not just grandkids, but great-great grandkids, and various friends she adopted as family with their kids. I'm nearing 30 and can't name half of us on my own! Either way, her love was clear, and she usually had a circle of groupies waiting for a chance to chat.

      As a child, Dee seemed hugely imposing. She climbed under garden fences to tend plants, walked down the beach, and seemed very much in command of her world. It's only when I saw her as an adult that I realized how physically small she was; but like a bullet, she had no end of power and speed.

     When I got engaged, both Jax and I lost a lot of friends and family who couldn't deal with the idea of gay marriage. Each time we told an older person, or conservative person, I was waiting, terrified of being rejected again. When my grammo said she'd talked to her mom, I went cold. I truly didn't think I could handle her rejecting me. Luckily, I didn't have to find out. She made a colorful joke, and sent us a toaster oven. I cried. I'm crying now remembering it. She was born in 1917- Of all the people out there using the excuse that"they're a product of their time" we would've understood it with her the most. But she opened her heart and mind to us, and I will forever be thankful for that.

     There are a lot of things I regret: I wish I could've made the trip down there more, I wish I still had those emails from 20 years ago. But there are so many things I'm thankful for: memories, photos, and keepsakes both tangible (coin purse, hippy beads) and intangible (freezer bananas, multiple demin jackets.)

     When you live to be 101, you collect a lot of friends and family along the way. And through us all, she'll live on. When we wear our denim and think of her, hum a song she showed us, sew, play music, or indulge our hippy side. Or when we take a leap of faith, hold tight to our dreams and goals, and use our independent strength, we'll know she's stayed with us, where it matters.

Thanks, Dr. A

     I've tried to start this post at least four times over the past couple weeks. A letter came from my doctor's office a while ago, which generally isn't great news. But I definitely didn't expect to open it and read that my GP had died. It went on to explain that I'd need to sort out a new doctor with my insurance as soon as possible, and gave me a number to call with any questions. The fact that the letter was written on her letterhead added to the surrealness of the moment.

     Dr. A was my doctor starting in 2015. I'd been hurt for over a year at this point, and was frustrated as hell. I'd been treated like a drug seeker, a hysterical little girl- like less than a person at some of the clinics and hospitals I'd had to go to. After my first (incorrect) diagnosis and laparoscopic surgery, health care workers treated me as though it were somehow my fault the first diagnosis was wrong. 

     Going to Dr. A's office, I had little hope. That's why it shocked me to tears when she responded to my explanation of what was going on with my health.

"But what were those doctors doing? Why weren't they helping you?"

     She looked incredulous when I explained that since I didn't have a diagnosis, my former clinic refused to treat any of my symptoms. She talked to me with compassion and empathy, and treated me like a human being, which was so rare from health professionals at this point that I embarrassingly started crying. She ordered an MRI, and got me prescriptions to help some of my worse symptoms. She talked to me about my life and mental health.

     In the next couple years, Dr. A got me diagnosed and on the road to surgery.  I learned that she spent her vacations doing free heart surgeries in the Philippines, through a program she founded. But most impressively, she worked in medicine without becoming jaded. She treated her patients like human beings, and remembered to ask about our lives outside of our sometimes treacherous bodies.

     A couple months ago, the office told us she'd had a stroke and was taking some time off to recuperate. They had a couple of rotating substitute doctors filling in, and I suppose I just assumed she'd be back any day. I just wish I would have thanked her. 

     So thanks, Dr. A. For your compassion. For talking to me, rather than at me. For taking my pain seriously, and not brushing me off as some faker. For getting me diagnosed. For always asking what I was doing to distract myself from the sickness and pain. For the work did, from here to the Philippines, helping people. For never losing your empathy in a vocation that can so easily wear it down, I will always be thankful to you.