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jadelyntateThis was probably the hardest essay I've ever written.
Cubby
It happened when I was walking to Safeway to get milk and snacks. I hadn't been paying much attention to my surroundings, instead focusing on the music blaring through my MP3 player. So when I looked up and saw him, walking towards me, it was like a punch to the gut.
I didn't know him. I'd never seen him before that I could recall. But he was wearing a Chicago Cubs t-shirt, an old version, and that's all it takes to make me want to cry.
Ten years and I still can't look at the Cubs logo without thinking about my grandmother. She had been the biggest fan—born and raised in Chicago, her bedroom had been all blue, white, and red and not because she was patriotic. She created batting charts to keep track of score, she almost never missed a game if it was on TV, and if she could have made it to a Diamondbacks/Cubs game, I think she would have (thoroughly irritating all the Arizona fans, I'm sure, with her cheering for the Illinois team).
She died on my fourteenth birthday. I don't remember much about the day as it started in a haze and ended much the same. What I do remember is waking up in the hospital waiting room, seeing half my cousins crying, and my parents no where in sight. We'd been there because Grandma had had surgery to repair the hole in her intestines, caused by a cyst that formed from all the aspirin she'd taken. I hadn't known it back then but she'd been addicted to the substance, popping them like candy.
In some ways, we were lucky. She could have died at home and I don't think I could have continued living in that house with all the memories. If not for her ankles flaring up to the point of unbearable pain, Grandma never would have gone to the emergency room and discovered her blood pressure was way too low. Stuck in the hospital for a few days, they finally figured out the problem the day before my birthday and she went into surgery that night.
The next morning she was gone.
I usually try blocking out painful memories and this was no different. It was actually easier than usual because my entire life turned into a bit of a fog. I went to bed, I woke up, I sat around, and I went back to bed. The one thing I do remember quite clearly is that I didn't cry. Not even at the funeral. It wasn't until months later, when my parents came home with groceries from Albertsons. Grandma and I used to go there together once a month to get random candies and papers for her. Seeing the bags it finally hit me and I broke down in the sobs I'd been denying.
My parents didn't know what to do and left me on my own in her bed, huddled under the covers and clutching her teddy bear with the Cubs shirt.
Grandma had been there since before I was born. My mother had never lived anywhere than with her mom, even after she married my dad. My dad, for his part, adored Grandma and her death hit him just as hard as it hit her kids. When I was younger, both my parents worked full time, my dad as a cable man and my mom as a housekeeper at a small motel in Mesa. I used to go visit her at work, swimming in the pool and being thoroughly spoiled by the owners, Jim and Arleen.
But most of the time I wasn't at school, I was at home with my grandmother, who watched over me and my sister. Occasionally, I suspected she knew more about me than my mother at the time, as she spent all her time with me. She made certain that I always had a voice, since my concerns and problems often would get pushed to the side in light of my sister's health problems. She would spend hours listening to me babble about something or other, and I would often fall asleep cuddled into her side as she watched one of her Lifetime channel movies. It wasn't until later that I realized just how much I treasured these private times.
She supported me in so many things and often spent more money on me than I think I deserved. She was the one who bought my middle school yearbooks and she was the one who paid for my four karate lessons in sixth grade. She gave me money to go to the community center and play in the pool and she would make a point of recording movies I wanted to see if they were on while I was at school. In short, she spoiled me rotten and I didn't know it until after she was gone.
Every Christmas she would offer me and all my cousins ten dollars to go to the dollar store to do our present shopping. I remember one year, while on our way to the outdoor mall the store was located, my cousin Tasha and I saw a large stuffed Tweety, my grandma's favorite cartoon character. Instead of buying presents for everyone, we combined our money and bought it for her. Tasha's brothers, my cousins Chris and Marvin, bought the other gifts and wrote from all four of us. Grandma, when she ripped off the wrapping paper and saw what we'd done, engulfed us in hugs and put the stuffed animal on her bookshelf, a place of honor.
That was the year she got her Cubs blanket, a gift from my parents. She absolutely loved it and used it up until her death. Afterward, when we finally started going through her things, it was the only item my sister wanted so it went to her. I got another blanket, the painting I made for her of a dog with a Cubs cap on his head, and one of her dresses, which I used as a nightgown up until it fell apart. Tasha got the Tweety.
If any of my cousins were as devastated with grandma's death as I was, it was Tasha. She wasn't related to us by blood—her mother had married my mom's brother and he'd adopted her. Her mother's family was strict and borderline abusive, though I didn't know that at the time. The only time I ever noticed something was off was when we visited for a holiday once. Being close to my grandma and knowing she would know I was joking, I made a smart ass remark in response to something she said. Any other time or place, it wouldn't have caused anyone in my family to even blink. Tasha's maternal grandfather, however, marched over and smacked me across the face for being disrespectful to my elders. My father came in, having heard me start crying and my grandmother start yelling. Dad was furious when he found out what happened and we left shortly thereafter. We never returned to the Mitchell house and that was last I personally ever saw of them as my parents and grandmother refused to allow me in their presence again.
Because her family was strict and aloof, Tasha didn't often get the grandma treatment I was so accustomed to. At school one year, the year my aunt, uncle, and cousins moved in with us because they lost their house, Grandparents Day came up. Our teachers had us make Certificate of Appreciation for the grandparents in our lives. Grandma was the only grandparent I had at the time, as I rarely saw my dad's dad and step-mom who lived out of state. Naturally, I made mine for her. Tasha did the same since she was living with her.
Grandma loved the certificates and insisted my dad go out and buy frames. Humoring the old lady, my dad did as he was told and came back with two in dark wood. Within ten minutes, they were proudly hanging on her bedroom wall. Tasha had gotten very quiet and grandma finally asked her what was wrong. She told her that if she had done this for her mom's mom, the certificate would have been thrown away or used in the fireplace at their house. It was a simple act that I took for granted but Tasha found astounding. She became Grandma's number two fan from then on (number one was myself, naturally).
The first year anniversary was hard on everyone. As it got closer, everyone got quieter. I had forgone any birthday parties that year, as I didn't want to remember the day. We spent it in silence, broken only by my parents giving me a birthday cake and a few presents. The year after that was harder and easier at the same time. Two years had passed which meant the hurt was less but it was almost my Sweet Sixteen and I desperately wanted my grandmother to help me celebrate. Ultimately, I chose to go to a concert than have a party as a concert would give me the chance to forget and a party at home wouldn't.
In the past ten, nearly eleven years, my birthdays have had their ups and downs. I've finally gotten to the point where I don't demand to know why she was taken and if she had to go, why that particular day. My eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays, supposedly huge milestones, were quiet and tense. My twenty-fourth, the ten year anniversary, I didn't even celebrate. I accepted congratulations but none of them mattered. She'd been gone ten years and I missed her desperately. I spent it in my apartment, curled up on my bed and reading one of my old Baby-Sitters Club books, the books she bought me.
Since her death, I've found I can no longer watch Cubs games. I've slowly gotten to the point where I can sit through a softball game, even play one occasionally, without feeling like my heart was going to erupt in flames. I can sit through Rockies games, pick up games, and leisure leagues, but even when the Cubs looked like they might have gone to the World Series, I couldn't bring myself to watch. Watching them was something we did together, keeping track of the batting order and the score on little cards she made for us. It feels sacrilegious to watch the games in person or on TV without her.
The student in the Cubs t-shirt had no idea the effect he had on me. As I stood there, watching him walk by nonethewiser, I suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore. I had to force myself to continue on because I needed the milk, at least. I could curl into a ball when I got home, hugging the only picture I have of her to my chest as I remembered the way she'd smile when her favorite player, Mark Grace, first basemen, took the bat. I could think of and pray that my mom was right, that grandma really was in heaven, needling God to let the Cubs win the World Series this year because, for goodness sake, they haven't won since 1908. I can imagine her talking with Harry Caray and the two of them warbling along to Take Me Out to the Ball Game during every 7th inning stretch.
I'll forever be a Cubs fan thanks to her but I just can't bring myself to watch.
I'm not ready.
I'm not sure if I ever will be.
Cubby
It happened when I was walking to Safeway to get milk and snacks. I hadn't been paying much attention to my surroundings, instead focusing on the music blaring through my MP3 player. So when I looked up and saw him, walking towards me, it was like a punch to the gut.
I didn't know him. I'd never seen him before that I could recall. But he was wearing a Chicago Cubs t-shirt, an old version, and that's all it takes to make me want to cry.
Ten years and I still can't look at the Cubs logo without thinking about my grandmother. She had been the biggest fan—born and raised in Chicago, her bedroom had been all blue, white, and red and not because she was patriotic. She created batting charts to keep track of score, she almost never missed a game if it was on TV, and if she could have made it to a Diamondbacks/Cubs game, I think she would have (thoroughly irritating all the Arizona fans, I'm sure, with her cheering for the Illinois team).
She died on my fourteenth birthday. I don't remember much about the day as it started in a haze and ended much the same. What I do remember is waking up in the hospital waiting room, seeing half my cousins crying, and my parents no where in sight. We'd been there because Grandma had had surgery to repair the hole in her intestines, caused by a cyst that formed from all the aspirin she'd taken. I hadn't known it back then but she'd been addicted to the substance, popping them like candy.
In some ways, we were lucky. She could have died at home and I don't think I could have continued living in that house with all the memories. If not for her ankles flaring up to the point of unbearable pain, Grandma never would have gone to the emergency room and discovered her blood pressure was way too low. Stuck in the hospital for a few days, they finally figured out the problem the day before my birthday and she went into surgery that night.
The next morning she was gone.
I usually try blocking out painful memories and this was no different. It was actually easier than usual because my entire life turned into a bit of a fog. I went to bed, I woke up, I sat around, and I went back to bed. The one thing I do remember quite clearly is that I didn't cry. Not even at the funeral. It wasn't until months later, when my parents came home with groceries from Albertsons. Grandma and I used to go there together once a month to get random candies and papers for her. Seeing the bags it finally hit me and I broke down in the sobs I'd been denying.
My parents didn't know what to do and left me on my own in her bed, huddled under the covers and clutching her teddy bear with the Cubs shirt.
Grandma had been there since before I was born. My mother had never lived anywhere than with her mom, even after she married my dad. My dad, for his part, adored Grandma and her death hit him just as hard as it hit her kids. When I was younger, both my parents worked full time, my dad as a cable man and my mom as a housekeeper at a small motel in Mesa. I used to go visit her at work, swimming in the pool and being thoroughly spoiled by the owners, Jim and Arleen.
But most of the time I wasn't at school, I was at home with my grandmother, who watched over me and my sister. Occasionally, I suspected she knew more about me than my mother at the time, as she spent all her time with me. She made certain that I always had a voice, since my concerns and problems often would get pushed to the side in light of my sister's health problems. She would spend hours listening to me babble about something or other, and I would often fall asleep cuddled into her side as she watched one of her Lifetime channel movies. It wasn't until later that I realized just how much I treasured these private times.
She supported me in so many things and often spent more money on me than I think I deserved. She was the one who bought my middle school yearbooks and she was the one who paid for my four karate lessons in sixth grade. She gave me money to go to the community center and play in the pool and she would make a point of recording movies I wanted to see if they were on while I was at school. In short, she spoiled me rotten and I didn't know it until after she was gone.
Every Christmas she would offer me and all my cousins ten dollars to go to the dollar store to do our present shopping. I remember one year, while on our way to the outdoor mall the store was located, my cousin Tasha and I saw a large stuffed Tweety, my grandma's favorite cartoon character. Instead of buying presents for everyone, we combined our money and bought it for her. Tasha's brothers, my cousins Chris and Marvin, bought the other gifts and wrote from all four of us. Grandma, when she ripped off the wrapping paper and saw what we'd done, engulfed us in hugs and put the stuffed animal on her bookshelf, a place of honor.
That was the year she got her Cubs blanket, a gift from my parents. She absolutely loved it and used it up until her death. Afterward, when we finally started going through her things, it was the only item my sister wanted so it went to her. I got another blanket, the painting I made for her of a dog with a Cubs cap on his head, and one of her dresses, which I used as a nightgown up until it fell apart. Tasha got the Tweety.
If any of my cousins were as devastated with grandma's death as I was, it was Tasha. She wasn't related to us by blood—her mother had married my mom's brother and he'd adopted her. Her mother's family was strict and borderline abusive, though I didn't know that at the time. The only time I ever noticed something was off was when we visited for a holiday once. Being close to my grandma and knowing she would know I was joking, I made a smart ass remark in response to something she said. Any other time or place, it wouldn't have caused anyone in my family to even blink. Tasha's maternal grandfather, however, marched over and smacked me across the face for being disrespectful to my elders. My father came in, having heard me start crying and my grandmother start yelling. Dad was furious when he found out what happened and we left shortly thereafter. We never returned to the Mitchell house and that was last I personally ever saw of them as my parents and grandmother refused to allow me in their presence again.
Because her family was strict and aloof, Tasha didn't often get the grandma treatment I was so accustomed to. At school one year, the year my aunt, uncle, and cousins moved in with us because they lost their house, Grandparents Day came up. Our teachers had us make Certificate of Appreciation for the grandparents in our lives. Grandma was the only grandparent I had at the time, as I rarely saw my dad's dad and step-mom who lived out of state. Naturally, I made mine for her. Tasha did the same since she was living with her.
Grandma loved the certificates and insisted my dad go out and buy frames. Humoring the old lady, my dad did as he was told and came back with two in dark wood. Within ten minutes, they were proudly hanging on her bedroom wall. Tasha had gotten very quiet and grandma finally asked her what was wrong. She told her that if she had done this for her mom's mom, the certificate would have been thrown away or used in the fireplace at their house. It was a simple act that I took for granted but Tasha found astounding. She became Grandma's number two fan from then on (number one was myself, naturally).
The first year anniversary was hard on everyone. As it got closer, everyone got quieter. I had forgone any birthday parties that year, as I didn't want to remember the day. We spent it in silence, broken only by my parents giving me a birthday cake and a few presents. The year after that was harder and easier at the same time. Two years had passed which meant the hurt was less but it was almost my Sweet Sixteen and I desperately wanted my grandmother to help me celebrate. Ultimately, I chose to go to a concert than have a party as a concert would give me the chance to forget and a party at home wouldn't.
In the past ten, nearly eleven years, my birthdays have had their ups and downs. I've finally gotten to the point where I don't demand to know why she was taken and if she had to go, why that particular day. My eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays, supposedly huge milestones, were quiet and tense. My twenty-fourth, the ten year anniversary, I didn't even celebrate. I accepted congratulations but none of them mattered. She'd been gone ten years and I missed her desperately. I spent it in my apartment, curled up on my bed and reading one of my old Baby-Sitters Club books, the books she bought me.
Since her death, I've found I can no longer watch Cubs games. I've slowly gotten to the point where I can sit through a softball game, even play one occasionally, without feeling like my heart was going to erupt in flames. I can sit through Rockies games, pick up games, and leisure leagues, but even when the Cubs looked like they might have gone to the World Series, I couldn't bring myself to watch. Watching them was something we did together, keeping track of the batting order and the score on little cards she made for us. It feels sacrilegious to watch the games in person or on TV without her.
The student in the Cubs t-shirt had no idea the effect he had on me. As I stood there, watching him walk by nonethewiser, I suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore. I had to force myself to continue on because I needed the milk, at least. I could curl into a ball when I got home, hugging the only picture I have of her to my chest as I remembered the way she'd smile when her favorite player, Mark Grace, first basemen, took the bat. I could think of and pray that my mom was right, that grandma really was in heaven, needling God to let the Cubs win the World Series this year because, for goodness sake, they haven't won since 1908. I can imagine her talking with Harry Caray and the two of them warbling along to Take Me Out to the Ball Game during every 7th inning stretch.
I'll forever be a Cubs fan thanks to her but I just can't bring myself to watch.
I'm not ready.
I'm not sure if I ever will be.
