remembering elizabeth

today is betty's day. betty is my grandmother. tonight, they're probably partying down up there, she and harry. i wore harry's watch in honor of betty today. harry's my grandfather. i barely knew them as a pair, but i hear they were quite the couple. i like to think of them, happy.

three years ago today was a day indelibly etched into my memory. there are snapshots.

first, the sun as it was filtering through the leafless trees as mom, dad and i rode to the hospital. we were not even five minutes into the drive. mom is on the phone in the backseat, and i just know, we all just know, what the call is about. i haven't heard her say a single thing yet - and the sun is filtering through the trees. i'm glad it is a sunny day.

second, there is the ramp off 76 to the south street exit. traffic isn't moving. i am looking at the garbage on the side of the road. i am contemplating getting out of the car and running. i have to pee. the sun is still out. i wonder if i would make it. the morning routine had been interrupted, and we had to take mom home so she could drive to the nursing home. dad and i turned back around and headed to the hospital. the extra time, i hadn't planned for it. and now i had to pee. what to do, what to do. the garbage was on the side of the road, as always.

third. my doctor looks at me. i'd asked a question about what it would be like after the surgery. i can see his eyes. in my head, i've made up this story. he doesn't like telling me these things. even he wishes it wasn't me. "it will be different." i see his eyes. he isn't lying.

fourth, i see mom, our roles reversed. she is the one in a hospital gown. she is the one with the iv. she is the one wondering what is taking so long. we're in a darkened hospital waiting area, curtained off from the rest of the room. she had the surgery planned, and she isn't cancelling it. it is almost as if it is finally ok to do something for herself. i tried to joke, we tried to read, i thought about how strange this all was.

fifth, there's a surgeon sitting near me, a doctor, really. he's telling me mom's fine. he's asking more about me than what he's telling me about mom. i suppose she is ok. the doctor is kind; he knows what we've all been through that day. he sort of can't believe it. i sort of can't, either. his scrubs and his hat are blue. his eyes are tired. i imagine mine are, too.

dad comes to relieve me of my duties. i'm glad to go home. i don't remember anything else from the day.

that day. betty finally took her leave. left the dimentia behind and hopefully wasn't so confused about everything anymore. me, i scheduled my surgery. i was going to beat cancer in two short weeks. mom, she had a kidney stone taken care of. dad just tried to take care of all of us, i think.

i like thinking about grandmother today. she was a big part of our lives. she taught me to play double solitaire when she visited in the summers. she lived more than seventeen years longer than the love of her life, splitting her time between family and being alone. i think she was a strong lady. she cared about what she wore when she went out in public. she loved talbot's and toward the end, loved going to ruby's. she could whistle better than anyone i knew. her eyes were so blue. her hair, impeccably white. she used to read a lot. she sent me the entire collection of little house on the prairie books. she wrote a letter with each one. she went to church. she prayed more than anyone i knew. she took naps. she babysat jimnerd and i and we would go out in the '72 chevy malibu convertible. she couldn't remember whether the dog was a girl or a boy, even when she was still with it. it made us laugh. toward the end mom finally told her about my cancer, and she didn't forget. she kept it straight. the nurse told me she prayed for me every day. she told me, too. i think of her often; i'm glad i got to know her, a luxury i didn't have with grandfather. she was an important part of the family, and we would all do just about anything for her, to see her smile and see the sparkle in her eye. we miss her, but each of us carries a little betty along for the ride. it is better that way.