older chests reveal themselves
older chests reveal themselves
like a crack in a wall
starting small and grow in time
we all seem to need the help
of someone else to mend that shelf
of too many books
read me your favourite line
Having a bit of a rough night tonight. My parents called me earlier and asked me to give my Grams a call, because she's not been doing too well lately. When I called, she was just about to go to bed, and I talked to her for a short bit, but it was really hard to really talk about anything at length with her. She was obviously tired and she just doesn't hear well anymore - apparently it's gotten to the point that she's nearly completely deaf without her hearing aids, which she hates to wear.
She's been really confused lately. Her mind just isn't...it just isn't working the way it used to anymore. And I understand that. But it's still really hard. I honestly don't even know if she understood most of what I said to her when I talked with her tonight. Her responses didn't seem to mesh much with what I said to her. And then she started to really have trouble coming up with words to say what she wanted to say, and she ended up getting so upset about it that she started crying on the phone, and the call ended shortly after that. My dad had told me that she was having trouble with that lately, so I knew about it ahead of time, but it still didn't really prepare me. I froze when she started crying. I didn't know what to say. Which is stupid. I should've said something. "It's okay," or something remotely comforting. But the words just didn't come. And as soon as the call ended, I broke down into tears.
she broke down the other day you know
some things in life may change
Grams is 94 (95? Shit. I can't remember.). I shouldn't be so surprised by the way things have been lately with her. It's completely normal, in at least some ways, for someone of her age to be having the troubles that she's having. But it just...I have such a hard time with it. For so long, she was so well. Exceptionally healthy, physically and otherwise, for her age. And I got used to that. And now it's all changing so fast, and it's just hitting me so hard that she won't be around much longer. Everything is starting to go with her now. Her kidneys, her mind, her physical heath in general. All of it. It's like it's all just slipping away, and it feels so sudden to me. Throughout my life, she always seemed so full of life and energy, in her own quiet way. So this is just...a shock, to say the least.
My Grandma Howe is not that much younger than her, and her health has been getting worse lately, as well. With her, it's been a bit less of a shock, because it hasn't been as sudden and as quick in her case. I had time to adjust to it, I guess you could say. But even with her, it's hard. She's so negative a lot of the time, and it's really hard to listen to her be like that. And now Grams is starting to be like that, too, so it's now like a double-blow.
Grams and Grandma Howe are the only grandparents I have left. And I know I should be grateful that they are still here, and I am. But that still doesn't make this any easier. My extended family has always been there. I grew up visiting them multiple times every year. Even after losing my Grandpa Howe, I still had Grams and Grandma Howe.
I just don't deal well with this kind of change.
October 3rd was the anniversary of my Grandpa Howe's death. It's been 14 years now. And it still hurts so fucking much. I miss him more than I could ever, ever describe. He was the only Grandpa I ever really knew. My Grandad Miller died when I was 3; I was so young when he died that I have no real memories of him at all. But I had my Grandpa Howe. And he was everything to me when I was growing up. I still remember how he laughed - it was always this quiet chuckle, his shoulders moving up and down with each one. To my memory, he wasn't a man who smiled a lot, but when he did, it was a full one. I remember him teaching me how to wiggle my ears, and how to hook my pointer finger over my pinky and then push my middle finger through the loop created by them. I remember how, when I was still small enough, I run up to him and he'd pick up and hoist me into the air when we would get to their house in Indianapolis. I remember him taking me to the Children's Museum there. I have a memory of him taking me on a carousel, I think that was at the museum, too. He was always fairly quiet; he wasn't the kind of Grandpa who would boisterously play with his granddaughter. But I still loved the time I got to spend with him. I remember how he always sat at the end of the dinner table, and I sat at the opposite end. I remember how he always said grace.
I remember, after he was diagnosed with the brain tumor, the trouble he began to have with remembering things. I was always afraid that he'd forget me. I don't know why, because I knew that the tumor was only affecting his short-term memory, but I was still afraid of the idea. I remember the night we sat down for dinner and he started to say grace. I think it was that he actually forgot what came next, after 'Dear God...'. I can't be sure. But what I remember, what will probably be burned into my memory for the rest of my life, is that he stopped and started to cry, right there at the table. Asking why God was doing this to him. I was seven. And to this day, there is still a part of me that is so, so bitter towards the notion of God and Christianity, even when I know that such bitterness is misdirected, all because of that night, that moment. The one and only time I ever saw my Grandpa cry.
Both of my grandmothers have since moved from the homes I grew up visiting, out of necessity. Which I understand, on a purely rational level. But there is still some of me that is upset and angry about it. That I'll never be able to go back to either of those houses. Houses that I remember so vividly that I could draw you floorplans, detailed down to where end tables and lamps sat. Houses that brought me so much comfort. Houses that I can still smell if I think about them enough. I could tell you where floorboards always creaked in them. I'll never be able to go back to them. To experience the burst of comfort and familiarity that I always felt whenever we pulled into the driveway of either one. And I actually get angry, furious almost, whenever I think about how someone else lives in both of those houses. Some other people, their families. They're now living in, walking around in, and existing in spaces that I grew up with. The irrational part of me screams that it's not fair, that they shouldn't be there, don't deserve to be there, that those houses are MINE. It almost feels like they've been stolen. And the really irrational part of me foolishly thinks that if we moved my grandmothers back to them, that things would get better. That it would somehow reverse all the problems that have since come to be. That it would turn back time, and they'd be okay.
I know it's stupid, and childish and senseless and unhealthy. But there is such a part of me that just does not want to face what I know is happening. What is going to happen, and soon. I just want them both to be okay. I want them to be happy and healthy again. I want this deterioration of life to fuck off.
About two years ago or so, in the middle of the night, you would've found me in the midst of a crazed panic. I don't remember what spurred it, but I just remember feeling this gigantic urge to find out where my Grandpa was buried. I was young enough when he died that I couldn't remember where we buried him. And I went on this frantic search online to see if I could find the cemetary. It's almost ridiculous that I was able to find it. Indianapolis isn't a small town or anything, but it's still somewhat surprising that the cemetary where he was buried actually has a website with listings of those who are buried there. Since the burial, I have only ever been to his grave one other time, only a year or two after his death, I think. For a long time, I think I avoided ever thinking about going back to visit his grave. But in the past few years, and particularly since I found the cemetary late that night a couple years ago, I want so badly to visit him. But I'm also afraid to. Afraid of the overflow of emotions that will likely ensue once I see the gravestone. But I feel like I need to do it. I almost wonder if it would somehow help me deal with everything that is happening now. To visit him and try to really come to terms more with what happened. With his death. Because I think the fact that I still have so much trouble dealing with what happened to him is probably influencing how much trouble I'm having dealing with everything now.
But I don't know when to do it. Who to go with. Because as odd and horrible as it might sound, I almost feel like I'd rather not be with family if I do it. Part of me wants to be completely alone, but I know myself well enough to know that I'll need someone there. And I feel horrible even writing that, that I don't think I want family there. But it's just...I don't know. I don't know. I just know that I need to do this.
older chests reveal themselves
like a crack in a wall
starting small and grow in time
we all seem to need the help
of someone else to mend that shelf
of too many books
read me your favourite line
papa went to other lands
and found someone who understands
the ticking and the western man's need to cry
he came back the other day you know
some things in life may change
and some things they stay the same
like time
there's always time
on my mind
so pass me by
i'll be fine
just give me time
older gents sit on the fence
with their cap in hand
lookin’ grand
they watch their city change
children scream or so it seems
louder than before
out of doors and into stores with bigger names
mama tried to wash their faces
but these kids they lost their graces
when daddy lost at the races too many times
she broke down the other day you know
some things in life may change
but some things they stay the same
like time
there's always time
on my mind
so pass me by
i'll be fine
just give me time
like a crack in a wall
starting small and grow in time
we all seem to need the help
of someone else to mend that shelf
of too many books
read me your favourite line
Having a bit of a rough night tonight. My parents called me earlier and asked me to give my Grams a call, because she's not been doing too well lately. When I called, she was just about to go to bed, and I talked to her for a short bit, but it was really hard to really talk about anything at length with her. She was obviously tired and she just doesn't hear well anymore - apparently it's gotten to the point that she's nearly completely deaf without her hearing aids, which she hates to wear.
She's been really confused lately. Her mind just isn't...it just isn't working the way it used to anymore. And I understand that. But it's still really hard. I honestly don't even know if she understood most of what I said to her when I talked with her tonight. Her responses didn't seem to mesh much with what I said to her. And then she started to really have trouble coming up with words to say what she wanted to say, and she ended up getting so upset about it that she started crying on the phone, and the call ended shortly after that. My dad had told me that she was having trouble with that lately, so I knew about it ahead of time, but it still didn't really prepare me. I froze when she started crying. I didn't know what to say. Which is stupid. I should've said something. "It's okay," or something remotely comforting. But the words just didn't come. And as soon as the call ended, I broke down into tears.
she broke down the other day you know
some things in life may change
Grams is 94 (95? Shit. I can't remember.). I shouldn't be so surprised by the way things have been lately with her. It's completely normal, in at least some ways, for someone of her age to be having the troubles that she's having. But it just...I have such a hard time with it. For so long, she was so well. Exceptionally healthy, physically and otherwise, for her age. And I got used to that. And now it's all changing so fast, and it's just hitting me so hard that she won't be around much longer. Everything is starting to go with her now. Her kidneys, her mind, her physical heath in general. All of it. It's like it's all just slipping away, and it feels so sudden to me. Throughout my life, she always seemed so full of life and energy, in her own quiet way. So this is just...a shock, to say the least.
My Grandma Howe is not that much younger than her, and her health has been getting worse lately, as well. With her, it's been a bit less of a shock, because it hasn't been as sudden and as quick in her case. I had time to adjust to it, I guess you could say. But even with her, it's hard. She's so negative a lot of the time, and it's really hard to listen to her be like that. And now Grams is starting to be like that, too, so it's now like a double-blow.
Grams and Grandma Howe are the only grandparents I have left. And I know I should be grateful that they are still here, and I am. But that still doesn't make this any easier. My extended family has always been there. I grew up visiting them multiple times every year. Even after losing my Grandpa Howe, I still had Grams and Grandma Howe.
I just don't deal well with this kind of change.
October 3rd was the anniversary of my Grandpa Howe's death. It's been 14 years now. And it still hurts so fucking much. I miss him more than I could ever, ever describe. He was the only Grandpa I ever really knew. My Grandad Miller died when I was 3; I was so young when he died that I have no real memories of him at all. But I had my Grandpa Howe. And he was everything to me when I was growing up. I still remember how he laughed - it was always this quiet chuckle, his shoulders moving up and down with each one. To my memory, he wasn't a man who smiled a lot, but when he did, it was a full one. I remember him teaching me how to wiggle my ears, and how to hook my pointer finger over my pinky and then push my middle finger through the loop created by them. I remember how, when I was still small enough, I run up to him and he'd pick up and hoist me into the air when we would get to their house in Indianapolis. I remember him taking me to the Children's Museum there. I have a memory of him taking me on a carousel, I think that was at the museum, too. He was always fairly quiet; he wasn't the kind of Grandpa who would boisterously play with his granddaughter. But I still loved the time I got to spend with him. I remember how he always sat at the end of the dinner table, and I sat at the opposite end. I remember how he always said grace.
I remember, after he was diagnosed with the brain tumor, the trouble he began to have with remembering things. I was always afraid that he'd forget me. I don't know why, because I knew that the tumor was only affecting his short-term memory, but I was still afraid of the idea. I remember the night we sat down for dinner and he started to say grace. I think it was that he actually forgot what came next, after 'Dear God...'. I can't be sure. But what I remember, what will probably be burned into my memory for the rest of my life, is that he stopped and started to cry, right there at the table. Asking why God was doing this to him. I was seven. And to this day, there is still a part of me that is so, so bitter towards the notion of God and Christianity, even when I know that such bitterness is misdirected, all because of that night, that moment. The one and only time I ever saw my Grandpa cry.
Both of my grandmothers have since moved from the homes I grew up visiting, out of necessity. Which I understand, on a purely rational level. But there is still some of me that is upset and angry about it. That I'll never be able to go back to either of those houses. Houses that I remember so vividly that I could draw you floorplans, detailed down to where end tables and lamps sat. Houses that brought me so much comfort. Houses that I can still smell if I think about them enough. I could tell you where floorboards always creaked in them. I'll never be able to go back to them. To experience the burst of comfort and familiarity that I always felt whenever we pulled into the driveway of either one. And I actually get angry, furious almost, whenever I think about how someone else lives in both of those houses. Some other people, their families. They're now living in, walking around in, and existing in spaces that I grew up with. The irrational part of me screams that it's not fair, that they shouldn't be there, don't deserve to be there, that those houses are MINE. It almost feels like they've been stolen. And the really irrational part of me foolishly thinks that if we moved my grandmothers back to them, that things would get better. That it would somehow reverse all the problems that have since come to be. That it would turn back time, and they'd be okay.
I know it's stupid, and childish and senseless and unhealthy. But there is such a part of me that just does not want to face what I know is happening. What is going to happen, and soon. I just want them both to be okay. I want them to be happy and healthy again. I want this deterioration of life to fuck off.
About two years ago or so, in the middle of the night, you would've found me in the midst of a crazed panic. I don't remember what spurred it, but I just remember feeling this gigantic urge to find out where my Grandpa was buried. I was young enough when he died that I couldn't remember where we buried him. And I went on this frantic search online to see if I could find the cemetary. It's almost ridiculous that I was able to find it. Indianapolis isn't a small town or anything, but it's still somewhat surprising that the cemetary where he was buried actually has a website with listings of those who are buried there. Since the burial, I have only ever been to his grave one other time, only a year or two after his death, I think. For a long time, I think I avoided ever thinking about going back to visit his grave. But in the past few years, and particularly since I found the cemetary late that night a couple years ago, I want so badly to visit him. But I'm also afraid to. Afraid of the overflow of emotions that will likely ensue once I see the gravestone. But I feel like I need to do it. I almost wonder if it would somehow help me deal with everything that is happening now. To visit him and try to really come to terms more with what happened. With his death. Because I think the fact that I still have so much trouble dealing with what happened to him is probably influencing how much trouble I'm having dealing with everything now.
But I don't know when to do it. Who to go with. Because as odd and horrible as it might sound, I almost feel like I'd rather not be with family if I do it. Part of me wants to be completely alone, but I know myself well enough to know that I'll need someone there. And I feel horrible even writing that, that I don't think I want family there. But it's just...I don't know. I don't know. I just know that I need to do this.
older chests reveal themselves
like a crack in a wall
starting small and grow in time
we all seem to need the help
of someone else to mend that shelf
of too many books
read me your favourite line
papa went to other lands
and found someone who understands
the ticking and the western man's need to cry
he came back the other day you know
some things in life may change
and some things they stay the same
like time
there's always time
on my mind
so pass me by
i'll be fine
just give me time
older gents sit on the fence
with their cap in hand
lookin’ grand
they watch their city change
children scream or so it seems
louder than before
out of doors and into stores with bigger names
mama tried to wash their faces
but these kids they lost their graces
when daddy lost at the races too many times
she broke down the other day you know
some things in life may change
but some things they stay the same
like time
there's always time
on my mind
so pass me by
i'll be fine
just give me time