You brought me the joy of apples

I hate funerals.  I guess no one likes them but I hate them so much, if we could do away with them altogether, that would be great.  Super fantastic.  Utterly amazing.

The first funeral  I ever went to was for a 3 year old child.  I walked in and saw the open casket at the other end of the room.  I became suddenly and irrationally terrified.  The concept of an open casket felt very wrong to me. I respect every family's traditions and needs but it made it hard to breathe.  I swear it took me 20 minutes to walk to his casket and peer down at him.  The only comfort I had was that it didn't look like him, so I determined it wasn't him.

There are two worst parts to any funeral: selecting what to wear and leaving the grave site.  I'm not going for style here, people.  I'm upset, I'm pissed off and I have a lot of black clothing.  And yet somehow, I find myself doing my hair and putting on make-up.  Why?  What is the point?  Leaving the grave site is awful; it's gut wrenching, knee buckling horrible.  In fact, I'm often one of the last people to leave a grave site because I feel bad leaving my friend there to be buried.  I feel like I should stay and talk you through it.  I feel like I just want to hold you one more time.

Today, 4 years ago, you left us.  I remember your father calling me, I remember sitting on my brother's front porch and I remember getting extremely wasted and walking home from the bar alone, crying.  But I remember the day you were buried even more.

It was hot and I chose a shawl.  I don't think I said a word on the drive down.  Open casket.  Fuck.  I didn't get too close to you because I didn't want to see what someone else's interpretation of you looked like.  I wanted to remember you the last time I saw you looking like you: in the bathroom, at The Red Dragon, winter 2005.  You were looking at yourself in the mirror with this gentle smile on your face.  You had been through chemo and radiation and had miraculously escaped with all your hair.  You were always so delicate and thin but goddamn you were tough.  I asked you how you were feeling.  Some of the other people we were with didn't yet know that you had cancer but I did.  You arranged your brown hair, turned to me and smiled and said, "Good."  I felt confident; if you felt good, then everything was going to be ok.  But when I think about it now, I think perhaps you knew, even then, that you weren't going to make it.

I don't know what to say about your funeral; it was hard, sad, it hurt, I sobbed, I felt empty.  But as we drove back to the city, we passed an apple orchard on 169.  To this day, we have no idea what it's called; we just know that if we get on 169 and drive south, past Jordan, we'll hit it.  We decided to turn around and get some apples.  Maybe something sweet to remind us that life isn't all bitter.

The apple orchard itself has never been visited by me; it's the store that fascinates me.  It's totally bizarre, dreamed up by some German guy circa 1940, complete with polka music.  I sometimes wonder if they have secret meetings in the basement.  One half of the store is all weird candy that you can't find anyplace else.  The rest is freshly baked apple pies, apple strudel, apple bread, apple butter, jams, salsas, and an assortment of frozen apple seasoned meats and, of course, mountains of every kind of apple you can imagine, freshly picked from the orchard.

We go there every year.  The temperature begins to dip and I spot a few yellowed leaves on the trees and I know it's time to go get some apples.  Going to The Apple Place is fun and exciting--it's like our change of seasons road trip.  I can't help but remember you on the drive--some sadness creeps in but mostly I remember all the good times we had.  I remember cutting your hair and making hashbrowns in our apartment in Olympia.  I remember going to sleep in the room we shared and always saying goodnight to each other.  I remember how proud I was when you told me you were getting your RN degree at Columbia.  But every single time we pull into that parking lot, I start to cry.  Quietly and without drama; I'm just crying because I've lost you.  I've lost you and all I have is the goddamn Apple Place and Sonic Youth and some pictures.  I cry for a few minutes and then I buy apples.  Then I return to my life, which is emptier now than it used to be.

I love you so much.  I'll never stop loving you.  I try to be a better person for you.  I hope you know that.

Granddaddy's goin' to the football game.

I've been trying to write about my Granddaddy for a while now but I get very upset and just hit 'delete' and go get some more coffee.  I'm not good at sickness and death.  Not good at all.

They thought my Momma had cancer in 2001 and it was the worst few weeks of my life.  My father called me and told me I needed to come to the hospital right away.  I started breathing all heavy and he said, "Dresden...we have to be strong for your mother.  Do your best NOT TO CRY."  My father hates it when women cry.  It's a deep rooted...thing.  Too deep for a blog post.  Anyway, I lasted for about 2 minutes before I turned into a giant blubbering snotty mess.  I was no one's rock; I was hysterically crying looking at my small pale mommy in the hospital bed, in pain and scared.  My whole world was being ripped in half and it hurt more than anything I'd ever experienced.

When I saw Steph for the last time, I held her hand and we watched Casablanca.  When I left her room, I knew I would never see her again and I couldn't breathe.  I managed to walk out of the room but the minute I was out of view and earshot, I fell apart.  Like gasping for air, legs giving out, Florida on Good Times falling to her knees after James died yelling "Damn, damn, DAMN!" fell apart.  I was on the hospice ward and I guess they are used to that because, without a word, a nurse grabbed my elbow, kept me steady on my feet and walked me to the elevator.

I also hate hospitals and nursing homes.  I used to work with people who had HIV and AIDS and some of them were too sick to live on their own.  I found nursing homes to be careless waste lands of the forgotten.  The staff was usually playing cards or watching Judge Mathis while residents lay in their own filth.  The only time I went to a nice nursing home was when my rich ex-boyfriend took me to visit his rich grandmother in what I can only assume was a country club for the elderly.  If you don't have money, nobody cares.

I hate staying in hospitals, mostly because it's boring and all dignity goes out the window.  BUT.  The drugs are amazing.  What I hate more is going to visit people in the hospital.  It's like walking into a mall you've never been to.  You don't know where anything is.  Also, everyone is sick and it smells like cleanser and just a touch of urine.  When they did my mother's hysterectomy it was just after the cancer scare and I went to the hospital and I couldn't find her.  I couldn't find her or anyone else in my family and the staff was like, "Um...she's in surgery."  I fucking know that, but WHERE IS SHE?!  I finally just sat down and cried for like an hour.  When I went to see Steph at Mayo, I went to the information desk and said, "I'm looking for a patient, her name is Stephanie Perry."  The woman typed on her computer and said, "I found a Stephanie Johnson."  I was anxious and terrified and I lost my mind.  "Perry.  STEPHANIE PERRY.  She has cancer.  WHERE IS SHE?"

I'd like to pretend that I can handle death and illness but I simply cannot.  And right now, my Granddaddy is very ill.  He was near death, started getting better and now, he's doing weird, confusing shit.  I'm not going to lie to you and say my grandfather and I were very close all my life and he gave me Werther's original butterscotch candies and told me stories of his youth.  Mostly, he asked me why I wasn't interested in religion, commented on my weight and made it clear that women were not his equals.  But he also took me to see The Empire Strikes Back and let me have candy and popcorn.  And often when he talked to me about religion, he held my hands and spoke to me in that gentle grandfather kind of way.  He's always been confusing to me but I also know that he has seen and been through more things in his life than I will ever, ever understand.  And because he endured, I am here and I went to college and have a job and can support myself.  All of that is because of what he went through.  I recognize and respect that.

The other day, my father was talking to his father on the phone.  Granddaddy said, "I'm going to the football game.  I'm just pulling into the parking lot now."  This, of course, is not true.  He was sitting in his nursing home bed in South Carolina.  Then there was silence and my grandmother came on the line and said, "Well Sonny...he just put the covers over his head."

While I am worried that something is wrong in his brain--a stroke or something equally alarming--I take comfort in thinking that maybe he's just in his Happy Place right now in response to all the trauma he's gone through in the past few months.  I hope he is going to the football game.  I can't help but smile picturing it: my big, 80 year old Granddaddy throwing the covers over his head, saying he's going to the football game.  No, it's not funny.  But if he needs to feel something other than helpless and sick, let him go to the goddamned football game.

It would be cool if you could call me and just say hi.

I don't think they have phones where you are.

Do you remember when we watched Casablanca? I do.

But the thing that I remember the most is the day we had some stupid fight about nothing. Some trivial, doesn't-even-matter argument and I walked away from you. I just turned and walked away and left you standing there. I was mad, probably crying because I tend to do that even if I'm not sad, just frustrated. I remember looking over my shoulder at one point and you were following me. Just a tiny, small little figure walking slowly after me, shoulders slumped forward, wearing that blueish-gray knit cap you wore for practically the whole year. You didn't look mad. You looked sad. And so, so small. I wish I had stopped, waited for you to catch up and squashed whatever crap had wedged itself between us. We could have sat on the lawn and drank Olympia beer and complained about how much it tasted like pee.

I remember the time you hooked up with the guy I told you I liked. So I went back to our dorm room and locked the door, knowing I had your keys in my backpack. I remember you sat on the other side of the door and knocked and cried and said you were sorry. I remember I forgave you pretty quickly and never thought of it as an actual betrayal. Because it wasn't; it was just girl drama and that shit don't matter. But those few minutes that I knowingly locked you out of our room were cruel, self-centered and incredibly immature. I wish I could have those minutes back. I wouldn't even think about closing the door on you.

I miss you every day. But today, I miss you a lot. A lot a lot a lot.