Goodbye Katy...

I just got word this past weekend that my paternal grandmother has died. I do not feel sad at this occasion but rather a great relief for her and my family (immediate and extended), who have been unwavering in their care for her and support of each other. Her last decade of life was filled with so many changes that were out of her control: the necessary move from her home and constant companionship of her sister, the eventual diagnosis of Alzheimer's Disease and its cruel and rapid removal of all of her memories, language and ability to care for herself and finally the heart failure that brought her death, early on Sunday morning.

She was a feisty and independent woman and I am sad to say that I never grew to appreciate that side of her as much as I should have, and my early interactions with her were ones of fear of knocking over glass vases and pricey trinkets that sat on special shelves and in display cases around her sitting room. She had a good eye for design and some of her furniture, purchased in the 1950's, would not look out of place in the design showrooms in London, today.

By the time I grew up and was no longer scared of her, she was already in quite poor health, and so I never had the types of easy adult discussions with her that I had with my maternal grandmother, who had died over a decade ago. I would like to think that other people can remember Kathryn for the true character she was and celebrate her life.

What I do know is that my father, the only man in my life that I love and trust implicitly has lost his mother. I know that my grandmother adored her sons, but it was evident that my father held a special place in her heart - he could do no wrong in her eyes. In his efforts to do things for his mother, she often lashed out at others, blaming them for the actions of my father. I don't blame her, though, she was abandoned by every man in her life, and she really didn't want to alienate any others, I think. For her to be able to love my father without reserve makes me love her more than fear her. The last time I saw my grandmother was about a year ago. My father drove me to the care home where she was living out her last days. There was no recognition of me, nor of my father. However, she did smile when we held her hands and brushed the wispy, cottony hair off her brow. The eyes that twinkled with mischief were cloudy and tired. I wished so many things for her, but mostly that she didn't have to die this way - slowly and very much alone in her head.

It's over. Sadly, gratefully, and wistfully I say goodbye to Katy.

Charlie has left the building...

Six years ago, when I first moved to the UK, I had a lot of time on my hands before I got a proper job. I used to potter about the estate looking for something to do, someone to talk to, some semblance of something interesting - usually to no avail. Living in London without money or purpose is depressing and bleak. There are only so many times a visit to a museum will do, throughout the week.
Next door to me lived a man who was a bit old and crotchety. If I saw him out collecting his post from his entryway I would say 'hello' and he would invariably ask me if I had seen so-and-so lately, or whether I knew when the trash bins were going to be collected, or who I was and why was I living in London. It didn't seem that he was ever interested in my answers and he'd just totter back inside his flat, wave his walking stick good-bye and resume doing whatever it was that he did. Sometimes I would think that maybe he was lonely but he never accepted invitations for cups of tea, neither did he offer one. Eccentric, I thought. Anti-social, perhaps.

We moved to the seacoast a few years after that but kept the house next to Charlie, renting it out to two different couples. Moving back meant reacquainting ourselves with the neighbours. Charlie, it seemed, had suffered a stroke and been moved into a retirement home to recuperate. His brother, a dentist in a red Merc, always stopped by and we'd ask after Charlie (or 'Chaaaarles' as he referred to himself over the phone when he rang Jay for something). Charlie was hanging in there and hoped to be back in the flat soon, but his brother was a bit more realistic, we thought.
Charlie died not long after that, still in the retirement home, still in Twickenham. I found his obituary online. His agent came by to see whether he could put some of Charlie's stuff in the extra bins on the estate. I took out a sack of rubbish later that night and noticed that there were Christmas decorations stuffed to the top of one of them. I came back inside and told Jay and we both had a moment for Charlie.

Postscript: Jay just came in with a small boxing trophy, circa 1940, found in one of the rubbish bins. We're keeping it even though we were only offered his barbeque.

The Girl who Flew Away

Yesterday was such a weird day. We got a phone call from a friend who told us that one of our acquaintances had died. I think life had been too much for her lately.

We hadn't seen her in a few years and the last time was just a quick passing in the street when we exchanged a few polite words and a suggestion of getting together sometime for a drink. That was it, really, and I hadn't thought of her much since.

There was a point in time this past week when I was washing my hands, taking a drink of water, eating some food or snuggling up to the SO and watching a movie, and at that same moment V was jumping or falling over a cliff. I feel weird even though I am sure that I factor so insignificantly into this event. As my SO said, the anguish she must have felt is over. I still feel weird...