"Beacuse she was mine"
30 July 2006, 6:40 pm
My Grandmuzzer told me a story once about the day I was born. She sed that she came to the hospital to see me as soon as she knew I was born, and she looked at me and "Wuzzabuss, as soon as I looked at you, you were mine, and I was yours. I knew, at that moment, no one would come between us."
She was right. As I began to reach puberty, she would tell me "When you get more interested in boys than in me, you don't need to come visit me anymore. Because when you're here, I want you to play with me." And I always did. There was never another person on this planet I could be more interested in than her. And every time I went to visit, we would play: either with her paints or her pots, or at the pool, or with her yarn.
As I got older, so did she. And as I watched her age, I told anyone who would listen that she's who I want to be when I grow up. She never lost her interest in the world around her, in her friends, in learning everything she could, and in staying in touch with whoever would be in touch with her.
When I got married, and later, when I got divorced, she told me to make sure I kept my own life: "I loved your Papa more than anything, but when he died, I was so glad to be able to live my own life and make my own decisions and have my own money. Make sure you don't lose yourself in your husband, because he's not going to be there forever. Make sure you have your own interests and money, always."
Friday night, I went to Virginia Beach with The Sperm Donor to see Grandmuzzer. She's had a rough year, and things weren't looking real good for her. By the time we got to my Uncle Alphabet's house, Grandmuzzer was in a medically induced coma; hopped up on morphine and Ativan, she couldn't let us know she knew we were there.
I sat with her most of the day yesterday, talking to her, letting her know I knew that wasn't her, and that I knew she was on her way to see Papa and her Mother and Ruthie and Gramma again, and they were gonna have a helluva bridge game - and all of heaven could prepare to be laid to waste if anyone got in their way.
The Sperm Donor and the MomThing, as well and Uncle Alphabet and The Scottish Bride were all there last night at midnight, trying to make her comfortable. I went out side for a minute, and when I came back in, I sat in a chair, looking at her. I stood up to go over to her, and when I got to her bedside, I smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead, and said "That's it, y'all. She's gone."
Uncle Alphabet said no, that she'd been having apnea, and they had been getting longer. But then Mama looked at me and looked at Grandmuzzer and said "No, Alphabet. She's gone." The Scottish Bride came over, to check her pulse and dispute with me, and she confirmed what I already knew. There was no pulse, and her lungs were still.
The Sperm Donor looked at me and asked "How did you know? We were all watching her. How'd you know, and we didn't?"
And I said "Because she was mine."
Marion Humphries Thomas Wright
Artist, Musician, Lady
5 May 1923 - 30 July 2006 (12.36 am)
My hero and role model for a life well-lived
My Grandmuzzer told me a story once about the day I was born. She sed that she came to the hospital to see me as soon as she knew I was born, and she looked at me and "Wuzzabuss, as soon as I looked at you, you were mine, and I was yours. I knew, at that moment, no one would come between us."
She was right. As I began to reach puberty, she would tell me "When you get more interested in boys than in me, you don't need to come visit me anymore. Because when you're here, I want you to play with me." And I always did. There was never another person on this planet I could be more interested in than her. And every time I went to visit, we would play: either with her paints or her pots, or at the pool, or with her yarn.
As I got older, so did she. And as I watched her age, I told anyone who would listen that she's who I want to be when I grow up. She never lost her interest in the world around her, in her friends, in learning everything she could, and in staying in touch with whoever would be in touch with her.
When I got married, and later, when I got divorced, she told me to make sure I kept my own life: "I loved your Papa more than anything, but when he died, I was so glad to be able to live my own life and make my own decisions and have my own money. Make sure you don't lose yourself in your husband, because he's not going to be there forever. Make sure you have your own interests and money, always."
Friday night, I went to Virginia Beach with The Sperm Donor to see Grandmuzzer. She's had a rough year, and things weren't looking real good for her. By the time we got to my Uncle Alphabet's house, Grandmuzzer was in a medically induced coma; hopped up on morphine and Ativan, she couldn't let us know she knew we were there.
I sat with her most of the day yesterday, talking to her, letting her know I knew that wasn't her, and that I knew she was on her way to see Papa and her Mother and Ruthie and Gramma again, and they were gonna have a helluva bridge game - and all of heaven could prepare to be laid to waste if anyone got in their way.
The Sperm Donor and the MomThing, as well and Uncle Alphabet and The Scottish Bride were all there last night at midnight, trying to make her comfortable. I went out side for a minute, and when I came back in, I sat in a chair, looking at her. I stood up to go over to her, and when I got to her bedside, I smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead, and said "That's it, y'all. She's gone."
Uncle Alphabet said no, that she'd been having apnea, and they had been getting longer. But then Mama looked at me and looked at Grandmuzzer and said "No, Alphabet. She's gone." The Scottish Bride came over, to check her pulse and dispute with me, and she confirmed what I already knew. There was no pulse, and her lungs were still.
The Sperm Donor looked at me and asked "How did you know? We were all watching her. How'd you know, and we didn't?"
And I said "Because she was mine."
Marion Humphries Thomas Wright
Artist, Musician, Lady
5 May 1923 - 30 July 2006 (12.36 am)
My hero and role model for a life well-lived