I'm watching an
American Pickers marathon tonight. This is something that typically would have prompted a call to Mimi. She and I shared a love of antiques - especially dishes - and had great nostalgia for the accompanying stories. I can't call Mimi tonight. She's been gone from this world for just over two months. But the strength of her memory that I feel tonight has prompted me to write this post, a post that I've been putting off since before she died. Writing such things makes them real, right?
Last Fall, Mimi, who had been fighting liver disease for the better part of a year (and probably longer in hindsight), suffered a major setback. Treatments that had previously worked no longer did the trick. Her body was saying, "no more." When we received the call about this, questions immediately bombarded my brain. Should we go visit? Should the Bean come? What should we tell her?
I struggled for a long moment with what to do. How would my toddler handle this? What was appropriate to say? Should I, could I, shield her innocent being from the emotional pain that I could see coming fast over the horizon?
...And then I remembered. I remembered the white hallway. I remembered my Mom holding me. Most importantly, I remembered the toes sticking out of the hole in the white cotton socks and the warm smiling eyes. My own great grandmother, Mamaw. Her warmth and happiness are real to me still today. I was two at the time we visited her, and this was the last time I saw her. I remember. Because my Mom took me to see her in her last days, I remember her...
That settled it. We would make a detour on our current roadtrip to visit Mimi in the hospital, and the Bean would join me. We'd tell her that Mimi was sick and in the hospital where they could take care of her and help her to feel better. After all, this could be the last time...
I carried my own little girl into the hospital. She pushed the elevator button herself. We entered the hospital room, Bean wary of the equipment at first. But soon, she and Mimi were comparing nail polish colors and blowing kisses. We told Mimi we loved her.
...I didn't know whether we'd see Mimi again. But perhaps the Bean would save away an image of nail polish and smiles. As it happened, we had a few more "last visits." We shared Thanksgiving with Mimi, and visited several times while she was on hospice care in her assisted living apartment. Each time, Mimi grew weaker, but each time, she and Bean shared a precious moment - turkey dinner, a Christmas gift, and more fancy nails. Every night the Bean prayed for Mimi. She even began requesting a tray table in bed because "Mimi eats in bed."
And when Mimi finally died, Bean understood. Bean understood that she couldn't get better. And that we would always love her and know her. I recently washed the Bean's jacket, and pulled a rose from Mimi's funeral out of the pocket. She's been carrying it around with her ever since. I can tell that she's been careful with it, but at the same time can see that she touches it often. For Bean, this is a comfort and a memory. The antique dog, named "Mimi Dog," that sits on our kitchen window sill is also a reminder of her once-owner. Objects and stories are helping us to keep the person alive. And maybe when Bean is my age, she'll still remember blowing kisses and pink nail polish. I know that I always will.
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Bean and Mimi, Thanksgiving 2012
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