Sans Matriarch

Ginny was always a bit intuitive. She had a dream that my cousin was pregnant the night before she announced it. She also saw the ghost up at the ranch a few times. Not once did she doubt or try to rationalize away any premonition I've had. Recently, she's been perseverating on July 3rd for about a week now. It is the anniversary of her brother's death. Dale died pretty young from a brain tumor. She apparently has been telling stories of how they cared for him in his last stages and kept the 4th of July as normal as possible.

Ginny died this morning.

(I've been working on another post complete with photos of our new house, but this rather derailed my attention. I'm a bit jumbled, so bear with the disorganized writing.)

At Christmas, Ginny signed herself up for hospice. She slowly let a few of us know and we all affirmed her decision. Her COPD has been extremely uncomfortable and I think her last hospitalization in October was proof in the pudding for her. Never very spiritual, she actually loved her chaplain and told us all that she now had a new Indian doctor. Ginny accepted the fact that she was never moving out of my cousin's house to live independently. She apparently fell (stroked? passed out? seizure?) Friday and re injured her back. She refused to go to the hospital when the paramedics came and her pain control has been terrible. She slept all day Sunday, which was a bit alarming for me and by yesterday my Mom told me that she was in the process of shutting down.

I didn't react well to this news and instead resorted to two coping mechanisms: cleaning the hell out of the house and drinking. I was missing my matriarchy and knew that they were probably gathering at my cousin's house, opening wine or mixing gin martinis (Ginny's signature drink), talking, and of course laughing. Remember on that side of the family grief always calls for a cocktail party. Its a rather ya ya Temple tradition thing to do. Even though I couldn't be there with them, it didn't mean I couldn't join them. Cleaning is my own coping mechanism. I knew I wasn't functioning well when I wasn't registering the effects of the alcohol. I felt fine. I was just the weeping woman armed with disinfectant and dusting cloths. I slept fitfully to say the least. My Dad tried to dismiss my Mom from the 4th of July party duties this year to which she replied, "The last thing Ginny would want is to disrupt a holiday tradition." She's right.

This morning I got another call from Mom and was greeted with more disturbing news: my tenants have given their notice and I have to find new ones. (Oh sure, like I can handle any more right now.) Later she called to tell me that Ginny was in the last stages and would call when it was over. She apparently, like Pop, waited until all family was out of the room before she went. Instead, the bath lady from hospice was there.

I've been having dreams about Pop constantly for the past week. He usually shows up in my dreams when I'm having business issues or need advice. He wasn't doing any of his usual things. Now I know why he's been hanging around, so to speak.

What I need the most right now is to be with my Mom, my aunts, and my cousins. The problem is we can't afford it. I'm still trying to figure out how to swing getting out later this month for my brother's wedding. I'm so close to my Mom that its ripping me apart not being near her as we just lost our matriarch.

I suppose in the meantime all I can do is remember what I love about her:

Small things like the smell of double mint gum, chlorine from the backyard pool, fresh coffee, and rich musty leather. Phrases like “hey you two, knock it off,” or your sing song way of “well…” The way she would brush her hands against her pant leg repetitively, mindlessly brush the counter tops for non-existent crumbs or swirling her martini glass letting the ice and olives meld against the gin. (I catch my Mom doing the exact same motions at times.) She always had tissues stuffed up her sleeve and the silver toe nail polish. She had an endless supply of cookbooks even though always sticking to a familiar repertoire of recipes: hamburgers on Saturday nights, scrambled eggs with chives, sharp cheddar, and mushrooms, oven roasted bacon and homemade raspberry jam for brunch. She once almost threw me into a dumpster when we came across a moose while camping in the Unitas. She was worried it was going to charge if we had separated it from its young.

She taught me to love stray animals, herb gardens, Tahiti, small pleasures like looking for deer and Sunday car rides by the toilet lady’s house in Oakley (maybe stopping for ice cream because we all “deserved a treat.”) She taught me how to identify Queen Anne's Lace, Indian Paintbrush, and Bleeding Hearts (aka "Lady in the Bathtubs"). She kept all of us packed up with Snickers and Coke during the summer days and ice cream for breakfast on the 4^th of July. She would tell us stories of searching for Watercress as a girl and what new great deal found on QVC. (I swear, UPS should be sending her flowers.) She was the one I called when I didn’t know how to care for peonies in a frost warning. I spent hours in the garden weeding or shelling peas with her. "Hot damn!" was an expression of glee. She taught me how to be a hospitable hostess and the joy of a sleigh ride. She kept a lucky chestnut from our relative who marched in Sherman’s March to the Sea in her purse. She was proud of being from “The Greatest Generation.” Once J asked what her proudest life achievement was. She answered, “The war.”

I remember stories of her waiting out a tornado in the middle of a golf game in St. Louis, holding a Roman Candle between her teeth at the 4^th of July, and visiting her Wisconsin grandfather with a peg-leg (and a raging alcoholic who passed out while ice fishing, hence the wooden leg). I remember hearing she used to play the trumpet in the marching band in high school and later watching her play my brother's trombone one Christmas. Ginny was lucky; she would rub her lucky jade and then win at slot poker. She helped mom make gingerbread houses and counseled my father over rough life decisions. She was an incredible non-judgemental listener. She never missed a beat, betrayed her thoughts/emotions, or give unsolicited advice. She was able to just be present.

When I was getting impatient about getting engaged she told me, “I don’t know what it is with you kids looking to find your soul mate. You know, Bob and I didn’t have one thing in common. Not a single common interest. He loved horses and the ranch and I loved golf. But you know, we made it work and we were married for over 60 years.” When I asked how she selected Pop she told me she just knew he was going to be a good provider.

Ginny trusted people to a fault and they took advantage of her emotionally and monetarily. Despite that, she hung onto the times that she felt she made a difference. She once gave a young soldier money to get home after talking with him on a train. Turns out that young soldier was Johnny Carson and he later thanked the anonymous young lady on the air while retelling the story. When asked why she did it, she said, "Well honey, that's just what you did in my day and age: you helped each other out." Her door was always open to the neighborhood kids and even my father came over on Saturday nights to play cards with Ginny when Mom was going on dates with other guys during one of their "breaks". She laughed until she peed coming home from the grocery to find herself locked out of the house with Mom and my aunt loudly singing dirty songs out of the windows to the Mormon neighbors.

The stories and memories just go on and on.
My grief right now is raw and more than my heart can hold. Tears seem to just fall without blinking.