The other day I plugged an old USB into my computer to see what documents were saved on it. I found this paper I wrote freshman year of college for my Grandma Carolyn. I read some version of it at her funeral for her eulogy. Reading it once again, brought back wonderful memories of her, and solidified how far I have come as a writer (don't judge, this was written a long time ago). In life, we get so busy with the hour by hour dismal details and seemingly stressful situations; that we forget what is most important. Let this be a reminder that laughter is the best medicine and that the more we can confront life with humor and a witty smile, the better off we will be.
"Barbara, I think I am dyeing today."
The announcement came on a balmy summer day and was followed by a demand to aid in the selection of an outfit to wear at her funeral.
Barb was startled, but shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence as she moved from the bedside to the small walk in closet that housed decades of outfits; from mink fur shrugs to wolf decaled forest green sweatshirts. My Grandma Carolyn had spent her life in fashion and was not to disappoint, even at her own funeral.
“Yes that is lovely. And it will cover up my big stomach”, replied Grandma Carolyn. Grandma Carolyn was always watching her small frame figure. I remember finding a pink empire waist peacoat; one she owned in her twenties. I felt like I was trying on an easter jacket belonging to a 5 year old; my forearm could hardly fit into the arm of the jacket.
As they were fingering through shoe boxes full of sparkling clip on earrings to find the right pair to perfectly match the outfit, the phone rang. Barbara answered it and a few moments later returned to the bedside where my grandma was laying, with gaudy rhinestone earrings and necklaces strewn about her.
“That was the sprinkler people. They said to expect them sometime tomorrow to check on the broken sprinkler in the backyard”, she reported to my grandma slowly and loud enough to be understood.
“Oh, well then, hm. I guess I will have to die some other time”, my grandma said to Barbara with a small smirk on her wrinkled and worn face. She then proceeded to replace all the jewelry in its right shoe box and motioned for Barbara to help her.
Some wonder of the audacity of humor at death. My grandmother was one who epitomized that audacity. I truly believe that laughter is the best medicine; and Grandma Carolyn took her daily dosage religiously.
It wasn’t too long ago that my grandma Carolyn’s health began to deteriorate. The cancerous army stealthily bombarded her body, overtaking it piece by piece. First she slept quite a lot. Then she began to eat less and less, soon she couldn’t go up stairs by herself, or stand and sit on her own.
I do not know a more dignified woman; she valiantly held on to that dignity even in sickness.
The first time I noticed her astonishingly great sense of humor was when Grandpa Art passed away. My grandparents were together for fifty-five years, and although the majority of those years were spent in argument, theirs was a marriage to envy; one that I would like to have in the future. Both shared a love of laughter; one would carry around a small note card full of jokes in the breast pocket of his suit coat to ensure that if ever need be, he could quickly and nonchalantly glance at the card for guidance. His quaint chuckle and large smile were infinite; and I now see the infinite smile in my cousins faces and hear it in their laughter.
Now looking back on her life, I notice the significant role laughter and humor played in her life. Raising six children, as a stay at home mother comes out victorious in rivalry with any other feat. Yet, for my grandma it was a lifestyle which consisted of many years of diaper changing, potty training, scrapped knees, dirty fingernails, lots of mistakes and trouble, but many many laughs. Inevitably my grandma raised six comedians, each with a different punch line.
Once each of the jokesters had moved out of the house, my grandparents decided to travel. They traveled to every continent, including a flight over Antarctica. They walked, hiked, cruised, flew, paddled, and rode. On a trip to the rainforest in South America, they hiked along trails, saw thousands of species of animals, slept with a personal rainforest soundtrack in the background, and used the restroom with tarantulas. The softball sized, hairy, creeping, eight legged creatures crawled up the walls of the bathroom, and tucked themselves into the corners of their room. Grandma Carolyn laughed about this; as I had an anxiety attack just imagining the bathroom and how uncomfortable I would have been for having not used the bathroom the entire trip.
Three months ago we were spending a weekend at our family cottage with Grandma Carolyn, tarantula free. We were very conscious of her every move. She was sleeping in the shade of the huge oak tree on blanket with the calming sounds of the lake whisping her into a dreamful sleep. I think when she slept she could not feel the pain.
When she awoke, Aunt Marie helped her climb the deck stairs to join the women on the deck. The conversation my aunts and mother were having was regarding the cancer my grandma has developed and is taking over her body.
Soon my grandma piped in, “You know, since I had surgery for my breast cancer, my boobs have gotten extremely small, and none of my bras fit anymore. So I haven’t been wearing a bra today. I feel so free! You girls should try it! I haven’t not worn a bra in 60 years!” She said this very mischievously, with a juvenile smile on her face, as if she were committing a crime against womanhood to go bra-less.
All the women broke into a roar of laughter. I realize now the harsh societal constraints Grandma Carolyn operated with for her entire life. I wonder what kind of woman I would have been had I grown up and mothered when she did. Through all the fight to be heard and respected in her life, she still had an uncanny ability to help those around her enjoy the moment we were sharing together.
Three months after her health began its rapid decline, I feel like it is at her worst. It is going to be any day now. Each time I see a phone call from home, I pause for a moment and dread to answer the call. I know that she needs peace and it will be better for her, but I will miss her terribly. My only comfort is in the fact that I know she has an outfit picked out for her funeral, with matching jewelry.
She now needs to take morphine for the pain and can barely speak without losing her train of thought. Family is constantly at her side, keeping her company and listening to her jokes. On one occasion she even drank a martini in her wheel chair while the family celebrated her 80th birthday. She blew out her candle on the cake, but wouldn’t eat a piece of pie because she was watching what she ate. She felt her stomach protruded too much and needed to try and trim that down. My father did not have the heart to tell her it was the tumors in her stomach that were causing it to bulge.
Our family truly benefits from her love of laughter and optimism. I now realize that our family is literally a group of ‘goofballs’. People always say that laughter is contagious, and we have all caught hers. In a world that proves serious and dismal, one needs a touch of wit and mirth in their life. To get more than their fair share of jokes and chuckles, all one would have to do is join in at an Ulmer family reunion. The Ulmers hoot and holler together, while my sisters and I giggle with my cousins incessantly. It is impossible to leave a family gathering in a bad mood, with all the jokes and ridiculously comical things we participate in. As much as I am embarrassed by my “Clark Griswald” type family I love them dearly and owe it to Grandma Carolyn for raising such wonderful children, who in turn have raised me to see the lighter side of life.
No comments:
Post a Comment