Living is a Process; Dying is a Process too
Stitching a million stitches alongside my grandparents that helped raise me
These last 2 weeks brought me to the brink of hell and back. I thought my grandma was going to die, the matriarch of my family that taught me to gossip a ton and live life to the absolute fullest. I got the call after doing some volunteer work with my housemate Jennifer in the cemetery. Nene was taken by ambulance to the hospital and diagnosed with RSV and pneumonia amongst other things — things that are all life threatening to someone who is 86 with a pacemaker and broken back.
She married Grandaddy when she was 18, meaning they’ve been together for over 60 years. Grandaddy waits on her hand-and-foot and trusts her judgment over his own sometimes. She has a phobia of doctors and a very quick-witted way of making everyone around her feel silly for being concerned when she’s deeply sick. She’s smart, concealing her fatigue by the season of slowness.
It took other members of the family to recognize just how sick she was, and without their eyes, she could have very well passed at the farm. The place that her and Grandaddy have spent most of their adult lives surrounded by cousins and friends and animals alike. It’s where we spent Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiving every year until Covid. It’s where I learned how to ride a dirt bike and four-wheeler. It’s where I was taught to skeet shoot. It’s where I stayed with Nene when she initially fell and broke the lower places in her spine. It’s where I met the friendly woodchuck by the creek because Grandaddy was routinely feeding him spaghetti and meatballs. It’s where the neighbor’s 7 guineas kept us up each night until being picked off one-by-one by the coyotes.
I spent most of my week sitting in the hospital, stitching my 10 foot quilt that I’ll use for markets come spring. I sat in my chair with multi-colored threads, little scissors, and raw fingertips answering questions from Grandaddy about where I source my fabrics and how I’m able to sew in such a straight line. I made sure to relay the correct information to doctors when Nene so willingly convinced them that she’s still driving and cooking meals every night. I took Grandaddy to the cafeteria every afternoon for a nutritious serving of meat lover’s pizza and sprite and oatmeal cookies as opposed to the peanut butter crackers he packed in a Ziploc bag for the day.
I called my cousins and let them know what the doctors were saying. I called my dad to let him know he needed to sleep there each night so that myself and Grandaddy could go home and shower and sleep. I called my mom to talk setting up home care for them at the farm when PT made it clear that they needed ramps over the stairs and a walk-in shower as opposed to a tub with a high-rimmed barrier for entry.
I sat; I cried; I carried conversation when Nene was coherent enough to track my stories. Grandaddy and I picked out dinner for her when everything on the menu “was surely going to be terrible.” I watched him feed her a chicken quesadilla, making sure to get bits of salsa and sour cream and guacamole with each bite. We took turns pushing the walker and holding the oxygen cord as she shuffled to the bathroom with apprehensive footing. We sat in intervals of talking about books and the pigeons on the window and complete silence.
Amongst a week that tried my ability to navigate family politics on the brink of death, I broke a little. I lost some boundaries and screamed at my mom on the phone on the car-ride home at 8pm. I forgot to eat greens and strained my eyes against the harsh lighting of the hospital wing. It wasn’t until my anxiety grew so great and pushed me to get to a 7am yoga class that I returned to body.
I found myself remembering to come back to practice and to boundaried communication. I found myself touching on topics with family members I haven’t talked to for 3+ years. I found myself noticing the thread bringing us back together — Nene.
Nene has taken care of all of us at some point in our lives. She was the first to jump in the car and take my sister, cousins, and I to see My Dog Skip and get us Bruster’s after when it turned out to be the saddest movie of all time. She always let us stay up late and make Rice Krispie Treats only for my mom to deal with later when we were wired and had tummy aches. She’s taken care of each of my cousins in very intimate ways through teen pregnancy and little league games and beach trips.
I feel this deep responsibility to make sure she feels cared for in this part of her life. She’s scared, looking to me for affirmation and asking the hard questions about death and dying. I’ve always been able to have those conversations, and it harps on my experience with my mom when her mother passed away a few years back.
Crafting continually reminds me that I am always in process. I had been working on this quilt for 6+ months, and it felt like it was lingering about for some time. Quilting reminds me of the conversation of using my hands and touching grief and allowing for time to mold my process. Being in the hospital reminded me of this truth, and that much like the process of craft is the process of life. Much like the process of life is the process of death.
Each beautiful aspect of craft and life and death is bound by process. Each beautiful aspect takes time, and that is not for me to decide. I can’t say that I don’t delight when a project comes to completion, but I will continue to push myself to relish when something takes time. It means I get more time with Grandaddy and his inquisitive and sharp mind. It means I get more time to talk shit with Nene about my cousin’s baby who could never be as pretty as my niece June. It means I get to make more memories that get infused into my work.
This last week has been a journey unlike any I’ve been on thus far. I’m proud of myself for showing up in the ways I could and remembering that my body and practice are just as important to maintain in the process of caretaking and grief. I can’t say that I know my place alongside my grandparents and their care in the coming months, but it may very well mean that I spend more time at the farm with them and my “work” comes with me.
I cherish life a little deeper this week.
I have online tarot on Fridays — we are reading for the energetics of what this 2024 year has in store as of late. My online shop is open for all US shipping. I have goods at Press Shop and Motherlode and now Nectar Yoga for those based in Atlanta.
With care,