Dear Karen and Amy, “Oh, pook.” When Amy called me that Wednesday evening, I didn’t think my usual stuff when I hear news like this, most of which is NOT G-rated and always suited for a trucker’s convention, a sailor or backstage. All I thought was, in a numb, startled, deer-in-the-headlights, did-I-just-hear-her-right? way was, “Oh, pook.” Irreverently, (because I am almost always irreverent), I’ve wondered as your mom left this stage of her life and entered into the next, if she too didn’t say, “Oh, pook!” And so I wanted to listen to sweet, sad music and write to you. To share my thoughts and feelings about a wide variety of things. To cry and laugh with you -- even though we are miles apart. To celebrate her life and her impact and mourn our loss. To connect. And because, in a totally selfish sense, I don’t want my voice to be unheard. (I’m scared of this damn surgery. J) And, because, my dear ones, when all is said and done, it’s connections with people: (loved ones, dear friends, beloveds) that truly matters. Health, money, work: all the material dross of our lives, all can (and often do) fail. But as long as your mind and heart are still working, it is that connection that can sustain us even through great tragedies. And let me tell you, losing your mom, especially in this way, is tragic. I know what it’s like to lose your mom fast. It’s unreal. You’re numb. There’s so much to DO. It seems never-ending. Like cleaning the Aegean stables. You feel unprepared. When do you have time to grieve? I’m here to tell you from personal experience: It’s OK and you will make it through. Somehow. Yesterday, as I was going through photos and fixing one of your mom at my mom’s wedding, I kept having that weird, painfully horrific sensation of thinking, “Oh, I can’t wait for Aunt Nanny to see this. I can ask her all sorts of questions that I forgot to ask her before when I was in Florida!! I’ll call her after I email this picture and --” Wait. Pause. Flicker. The movie breaks. Gasp. It hurts. “Crap. She’s not here.” Oh, pook. The only good thing I see about death is it’s great for getting things down to the essentials. It cuts through the crap. I remember that when Dad died, I truly thought that I would never get that image of him dead in bed. Never. I thought it would be burned on the inside of my eyelids until the day I died. I thought a person could not physically hurt so much. I was so angry at the Gods. Margit said when Bill died she never knew a person could produce so much water. My eyes burned, my nose was sore and I felt like I got hit by a truck and dragged for about 10 miles. I felt desperate and alone and angry and bone-shatteringly sad. I felt as if I would never be happy again. That if I laughed, enjoyed something or was joyous it was a criminal offense. I watched other people around me like a stranger through glass and thought “How could they, how dare they be happy? My dad is dead.” No one could understand my pain. How could they? It’s strange how people cope with death and dying. Some people just have to DO. Margit cooked as though if she fed Death, he’d belch and leave contented, licking cheese cake from his thin lips. And leave Bill the hell alone. Me, I wanted to connect with Bill. To touch. laugh and talk. Then I’d go off and cry and come back and be ok,. I remember going to the hospital the morning Mom died and grabbing a dish towel on my way out of the door because I knew I’d need the damn thing to cry in. But then I am that way and that’s how I cope. I have my dishtowel now and you better believe it‘s wet.. I was so blessed with friends and family who would let me talk. I do remember one girlfriend who took me out to eat after Dad had died. And she let me ramble about all sorts of stuff because death makes things clearer, most crystalline in a way. I will never forget Diana Young, a co-worker from my shoe-shining days, who as a med student was on call when Mom was admitted to the hospital. Diana was my angel and saw me through seeing Mom hooked up to all those horrible machines. I have never heard from her or seen her since. God/dess sent her to me. “Some people are angels masquerading as people. “ I hope you have your angels near to you, who are there for you, never-endingly there for you.. Someone told me after Dad had died to take my time. That I didn’t have to be strong or “get over it” right away. Because I have news, girls. You don’t ever get over it. You get through it. A part of your past is gone. It’s gone from that living entity into memory, into Spirit. That’s why we tell the stories and share. So that Abby and Tyler and Ted and Bill and Julie and all the next and next generations will have some sense of your mom and my parents too. And our grandparents. And us too. We are partly where we came from. We don’t have to be the bad part of that; that’s something we can change. But there’s a lot of good in there too. Love, kindness, helping, washing the dishes, talking, teasing, books, movies, music, card games, food, laughter. Things like that. Your mom was, like mine, a complicated woman. She could be difficult at times and tough to be around sometimes. A lot of times, there was a “catch.“ If you understand where she came from, the child of a difficult, demanding, never-should-have-been-a-mother mother, you can kind of get it. She told me stuff and so, that part of her that was challenging made so much more sense. And it’s OK and not a bit disrespectful to remember that part of her. Of course, there’s the great stuff; the stuff you miss like hell now and always will. She was loving and affectionate and never afraid or reluctant to get involved. Our mothers had a plethora of friends, acquaintances and extended family. How wonderful! I think one of the things that made your mom “better” than mine was that sense that your mom didn’t take “it all” seriously. My mom bought into that whole social thing. Your mom was more of a rebel. I always got the sense that even though she (like me) could duke it up and dress it up with The Rich & Famous, The Already Theres, The WannaBes and the Been Here Always-es crowd, she never took it to heart, like my mom did. I think inwardly she chuckled at the whole thing. I’ll miss that chuckle. I heard it in my dreams and smelled her smell and thought, “It’s gonna be ok. But right now, it sucks” Your mom’s house, no matter where she lived, was always a welcoming, raid-the-fridge kind of place. I remember when you all lived on Bell Ave. and I thought your mom was It And A Bag Of Chips because she had Kraft Cheese Slices! I loved those things and my mom didn’t do Kraft Cheese Slices. Even in these last years, I’ve always known I was welcome. I hadn’t been to her house in Florida and the first time I walked in I thought, “Yep, there’s that piece of furniture and yep, it smells good, yep, there are books everywhere!” I never felt like an intruder. It was another home. The hardest part, for me, as her niece, is that a underlying part of who I was and am is gone now. Aunt Nanny is not here to talk to. She always was a vivid part of my life, my memories. Not that we talked a lot. It was enough to know she was there. She was the last true connection to my mom and that part of my history is now unavailable to me. Rats. It sucks. And you start in with the “what ifs” and the “why didn’t I’s?” Oh, pook. When I watch certain movies, I think about my mom and yours. Oh, there are so many; Margie, Meet Me In St. Louis, Random Harvest, Casablanca, Robin Hood, and of course Thoroughly Modern Millie. TMM will always be your mom’s movie! Your mom would say, “Did you see this or that movie?“ And we could talk about it. I missed being able to do that with mine, so it was wonderfully comforting to be able to connect with yours that way. And how your mom would send me home with a suitcase full of books, warning me that she wanted a book report! I think the hardest part about losing your mother…. (Wait. Why do people say that when someone dies, that you’ve lost them? Like your damn car keys. “I lost my keys, have you seen them?” As though you can walk around the corner or go to the Lost and Found and there they’ll be. Oh, would that it were that easy. Maybe we say it because we feel lost without them?) Anyway, I digress…. I think the hardest part about losing your mother is suddenly you are thrust into the role of Matriarch. Karen, you ---- like Margit ---- are now the oldest female in your family. With your mom gone, we ---- Karen, me, Margit, Amy; we’re now the oldest generation of women. We ARE the Johnson Women now. Amy and I, having no kids, are thrust into new roles as well. I think it’s important for Abby, Julie, my nieces and all the boys that we are here and available. Abby, Dani, Alexandra and Julie are the next generation of Johnson Women. The sense of family, of history, of continuity is really important. It’s essential and splendid to give and have a sense of generations and connection. It’s a book, Amy! One of you asked why it takes something like this to remind us to connect? Good question. Maybe, just maybe, it’s your mom’s last gift. Yes, it takes time and effort but in the end, isn’t it worth it? Phone calls, emails, and yes, the good old fashioned letter. Visits are the best of course. But, why, oh why does it take this? Why does such a sensible, critical concept come at such a devastating, life-alerting cost? As I started to listen to my “mellow” music on my computer, the first song jolted me so hard it was as though I’d fallen through the floor. I do tend to think through song lyrics, lines from books, movie scenes and wish with all my heart that I could say it as well. Anyway, I think it says, in feeling, how I feel about the connection that we share and how I don’t want to lose it. In Passing Years In Passing Years, it all looks the same and just the names will change We all will love too many times But just the friends remain And so these things I’ll say to you Over tea for two on a wasted day When two friends meet and share I hope it’s you that still will care In Passing Years we’ll speak of truth and things we’ve learned since youth. Youth bears no age Only the stage, the lines, the first embrace So with that two people meet and they fall in love, one strong, one weak But soon it’s clear they must contend, with honesty, to find an end Some endings glad, some endings sad. Some strong but most are weak We’ll sit with ours in a closing bar No gains -- just friend remain And so these things I’ll say to you over tea for two on a wasted day When two friends meet and share, I hope it’s you that still will care. I hope you know that we are all here for you. Margit, Josh, Kaya, Marty…they’re here too and wanted me to make sure that you know that. I guess that’s my other job. Me especially. I’m here for you too. We have a lot of history and we have a lot of future experiences to share. I love you dearly and I want to be here and always for you. I am your family, your friend and someone who (even at those times when I wanna slap ya upside yo’ head) loves you tenderly. I think I’ll go eat some Kraft Singles and watch TMM and miss your mom like crazy. Love, Auntie Mima |
| A Tribute to My Aunt Copuright 2005 Mia Knerly-Hess |
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