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| Faye McElroy, Christmas 2000 |
Ten Years Later
Nana Faye McElroy
August 27, 1903-September 10, 2001
This is not a September 11, 2001, story. This is a September 10, 2001, story. It's just a simple family story, a story that every family has: the loss of a loved one. My grandmother died at the age of 98, surrounded by family while in hospice care in my parents' home. I say without exaggeration that she was loved by all who knew her. Nana died late at night on September 10, 2001. Our family had lost one of its most beloved members, and we assumed that we would be left to mourn her loss quietly over the coming days and weeks. I stayed at my parents' house that night, and mom and I stayed up late into the wee hours of the morning, talking.
Nana died in one world. We woke up to a whole different world the next morning.
Like millions of other Americans, I saw the South Tower get hit on live television. My life had turned upside down, both as an individual, mourning a private loss, and as a member of a culture that was experiencing a huge, public loss together. For me, the loss of my beloved grandmother and the attack on America are inextricably linked. Both events forever changed my world.
The following was written as part of my journal on September 8, 2001. I did not know at the time, of course, that my grandmother would die two days later.
The Houseguest
We are all at our folks’ house. Kelly is installing a new ceiling fan and light fixture in the dining room. Dad is in his chair, watching a Braves game. Sharon and Janelle and I are gathered in the kitchen, cleaning and talking. The kids are playing together and trying to stay out of the way in a tiny house that was not meant for all 19 of us at once. Nana is in her bedroom, dying. Michael is in with her, just quietly holding her hand.
We are each playing to our strengths in what is a trying time. The “boys”--grown men now in their 40s and 50s—try to find some useful occupation for themselves, an easy task around our parents’ neglected home. The women talk to each other. Some cook, some clean, some just sit. Our family is not good at dying; or perhaps I should say that we are unpracticed at it. In my 41 years, this is only the second death in my family on my mother’s side, which is where I live. We are a close family: aunts, uncles, cousins, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We are with each other much, and for the most part, we get along.
We have been grieving her loss for two months now, even though she is still with us. She is leaving slowly, in bits and pieces, so that I wonder, when the last little bit of her goes, will we really know? We have already lost so much of her. Her hearing, as bad as it was when she relied on two hearing aids and a clear mind to understand, is worse now that the clear mind is with us less and less. Her mind still works, but when we speak to her, she has to come back from a far-off place to attend to what we are saying. Between returning from the far place, listening, processing, and responding to what we have said, it takes a while to have even a brief conversation with her, and so conversations are limited to the essential: “Mother, do you want some water?” “Would you like for us to raise the head of your bed?” “Goodnight, Nana. I love you.”
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| Faye McElroy, 1941 |
Death has come as a visitor to my parents’ house. He is an unwelcome but inevitable houseguest, and we are slowly making our peace with him, grudgingly acknowledging his presence, but not wanting to make him welcome.
I am not a nurse. By this, I mean not only am I not an RN, I mean that there are some people who are just good with sick people. They are not flustered or grossed-out by the things of the body. I am, at best, a little queasy about anything having to do with our bodies, and at worst I am downright sickened by them. I sit, holding her hand, and she begins to make that awful gurgling sound way back in her throat that sounds like she is slowly sinking into water, and I want to run from the room. I can’t bear that noise, and yet I must. I must hold onto her hand and remain steadfast and loyal like the others, who don’t seem to react to it like I do. I don’t even want to look at the catheter bag, and the thought of having to empty it, as my mother must do, also makes me want to run. There is a slightly unpleasant smell in the room, and I don’t even want to think about what its source is.
This has been a dreadful time in our family’s life, but there is sometimes a sweetness to it as well. Each day that we have Nana still with us is sweet. Having family around for support, encouragement, help, and entertainment is sweet. Yes, even now, during this time, we joke and laugh with each other. It is sweet to see everyone getting along and just doing what needs to be done without complaining. It is sweet to see three generations of a family all interacting with each other while we watch over our shared oldest—and perhaps most treasured—member. I try to cherish these moments, knowing that once Nana is gone, we will all have to break up and go to our own homes to try to make sense of her death as best we can. The children among us will grow up, surrounded, I'm sure by stories of Nana that will bolster their own memories of her. We will tell stories about her. We'll laugh. We'll cry. We'll remember.
Can any of us watch what is happening here without wondering about our own ends? I can’t. Who can be a part of this without wondering: what will my own end by like? I have never known a world without Nana in it. I wonder what it will be like, to wake up and know that she is not with us.
