Nanny

Things took a turn about one month ago. My Aunt Renea called to let my Mom know they were rushing Nanny to the hospital. Two years ago she was diagnosed with NASH (nonalcoholic stethohepatitis) after years of health issues. Her father had died from the disease in his 50s, and her daughter, my Aunt Renea, was diagnosed in her 50s.

Nanny was a tough woman, stubborn to her core and truly independent. She worked at the same job for 64 years, starting when she was 18 and only retiring just two years ago at the age of 82. Her two years of freedom were marred by hospital visits, doctors appointments, and unrelenting pain. She never truly got to enjoy her retirement. Yet, she always had her hair, nails, and makeup done up. She loved to dress up and didn’t dare let anyone see her unkempt.

Her first husband was abusive – physically, mentally, and verbally. He once held a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, not telling her it wasn’t loaded. Her house, which she remained in for all these years, has bullet holes in it from where he fired warning shots during arguments. She kept one of the bullets to remind herself of what she overcame.

Nanny married my grandfather, Poppy, when my Dad was a teenager. They secretly wed in Oklahoma, not even telling their own family, for fear that people at work would find out. They worked in the same union hall and my grandfather was worried about the optics. They were married for 40 years. While they loved each other, their marriage was not without its own trials.

My precious Nanny was called home this morning. She went into inpatient hospice on Friday night and passed in her sleep this morning. I went to the hospice yesterday but did not feel I could see her in the state she was in. I am deeply grateful for the dinner we shared two weeks ago. Poppy, who never cooks, cooked a stew and My Mom, Poppy, Nanny, and I all sat around the table laughing and reflecting on old memories. Nanny loves Watermelon and that night we ate it one last time together.

It’s hard for me to accept the fact that she didn’t live to see me get married or have kids. It’s hard to know my half-brother will never know her. I am at peace knowing she is no longer suffering, her illness took so much from her. She lived a long, full life and I will be forever grateful for the lessons she taught me.

Austin

It was a normal Easter sunday, I did my tri-annual journey to church out of respect for my Mom. I wore a flowy teal dress I had just bought and felt good. We went to lunch with my grandmother. My phone rang right after we finished eating, my friend Saras name flashed on the screen, and I decided to call her back later. No more than 30 seconds after her call rang through to voicemail, I got a text:

“Hey, can you call me?”

“Not right now, I’m at Easter lunch. What’s up?”

“This isn’t the kind of news you want to hear from a text. Please call.”

One thought instantly swirled into my head: who died?

I found a quiet area outside the restrooms and called her. She stuttered for a second, then said “Austin Mills killed himself last night.” I was dumbfounded and had no clue what to say besides “Didn’t he have a son?” She continued, “He shot himself in his car, in front of his mother. You know he’s had a lot of issues the last couple of years.”

I knew Austin in my teens, he was best friends with some guys at church so he was around often. He was quite goofy, off the wall, and usually wildly inappropriate but had a heart of absolute gold. Deep down he was hiding a lot of grief, anger, and pain – his father had gone missing on a mountain climbing trip when he was a child.. His siblings were older so it became him and his Mom on their own. When we were 17, hikers found his fathers remains after an unusually warm Colorado summer melted enough snow. Over a decade of mystery and unresolved feelings suddenly crashed over Austin. You would never know how much it affected him, though. We only knew once he put the gun to his head.

The next evening I met two old friends at a bar. One proposed going to Austin’s house to visit Austin’s Mom. I felt very uneasy, I was downright nauseous. Seeing the stain from Nathan’s death haunted me for a long time. But it was some sort of morbid closure, there is no open casket at the funeral of suicide victims so the bloodstain is the last chance at closure. You don’t know of another way to cope so you cope with what you have left.

We pulled up to his house, his car still in the driveway. We walked up, shaking and nervous. The seats were still bloodstained and dusty from the gunpowder. I immediately started crying. That’s the other thing about death, we have to face these things. The things they don’t mention in obituaries, in flowery memorials on Facebook, or at the funeral. The brain matter, and blood, and skin, and the smell of death that we have to confront that are somehow a little easier than the lasting depression the loss brings. They are the last tangible bits of those we love who chose to leave.

We spoke to his Mom for a while, she was still in shock. We asked to see his room, and when we walked in she yelled “Please don’t sit on the bed, his body imprint is still in the sheets and I don’t want it to go away”. His room was small and messy, stains on the carpet, just a couple of sheets on his bed. A computer he played games on, a bookshelf full of accolades and memories from his youth. His closet was pretty bare; the typical assortment of basketball shorts, faded t-shirts, and button ups that Austin always wore. We smelled his clothes so we could feel close to him one more time. My friend quietly whispered “Look” and pointed to an empty plastic bottle of vodka on his dresser, along with a couple of bullets. He had to be drunk when he did it.

Austin didn’t cope well after his Dad was confirmed dead. We all cope with depression and grief in different ways, some people resort to alcohol and drugs. Austin loved alcohol. Alcohol and depression killed Austin. Grief killed Austin. Austin was a victim of his experiences, his surroundings, and how he chose to cope. I cannot fathom leaving behind a child but I am not Austin, I did not have his experiences, or his pain. When someone commits suicide everyone starts to judge. I am guilty of it, too. It’s important to remember that in that moment they were not themselves. If Austin had been in his right mind he wouldn’t have left his child.

Grief causes us to confront the demons of humanity, the demons inside us, and the demons inside those we love. It pulls us back to places of pain and pushes us into a new reality. Life is never the same after you lose someone. Although Austin is no longer with us, he is no longer in pain and that’s all we can hold onto now.

Growing up with Grief: Nathan

Nathan was an old soul, a brilliant mind, and his talents went to waste. He was eaten alive by his circumstances and depression. He created a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I am no longer angry at him, although it has taken me a long time to come to this point. He felt he did the correct thing in that moment. The days, months, and couple years after he committed suicide I was consumed with the thought that maybe it wasn’t what he wanted. That he was in the afterlife regretting his decision. That he didn’t actually understand what he was doing. For some reason thinking he regretted it hurt more than realizing it’s what he actually wanted. It wasn’t until his Uncle told me “Nathan knew exactly what he was doing” that I accepted the fact.

February 7th, 2010. I was at church for a Super Bowl party and Nathan was there. Nothing seemed too off except his text. His text will haunt me for the rest of my life: “Can you come outside to talk?”

I didn’t go outside to talk. I have no idea why. I got distracted by what was going on inside. I want to know so badly what he wanted to talk about. Was it a veiled goodbye? Final thoughts that I later would be grateful I got the opportunity to hear? A cry for help that I ignored? Would he still be here had I recognized the signs?

February 8th, 2010. Monday morning at work I get a call from Nathan’s Aunt. “Rachel, Nathan killed himself this morning”. I hit the floor and don’t remember much after that except my Mom rushing over to me. I had no words or thoughts, just complete sadness. We went to Nathan’s grandparents house to see his family. His brothers were so young, so broken.

The days after felt like a blur. The church reaction, the funeral. My friend Truman and I went over to his house and I saw the bloodstain. His Mom offered us a soda and took us to the garage. We saw the scrubbed area but nothing will dissolve that image from my mind. I was very angry that she would take us in there.

My walk with grief was different for Nathan. He was so young and he chose to end his life. There was no “It was his time”, there was no slow decline that allowed me to accept fate, there was no “he lived a full life”. It wasn’t his time, but he thought it was. The slow decline was internal, not one we could see. He lived his life to the fullest in his short time on earth but he certainly did not live his full life. It wasn’t fair.

 

I took a self portrait on the day he died so I could look back and remember the feeling.

This picture takes me back to that day, so vividly. I couldn’t stop crying.

Then, a year later.

The one year mark hurt. I remember making dinner for myself and crying because I felt like everyone had forgotten about Nathan. It was just another day to many yet it still stung for me.  It also shows the change of time, some people in the picture on the wall are no longer in my life. These are people Nathan knew, some who did not treat him well. Some of them he would be disappointed in. It’s a little strange to view.

Now, 6 years later I still don’t understand it, I still don’t like his choice, but I accept that it’s what happened. I am now painfully aware of the silent killer – depression. It made me recognize symptoms in myself that I often hide. It softened me, made me realize that all of us are fighting some battle. We never know what another person is feeling.

Nathan was difficult to write about. Words feel cheap when it comes to explaining the difficulty of losing a loved one to suicide. I think deep down I’m still processing the loss, and maybe I will be forever. There is little closure when it was the choice of your loved one.

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This is the fourth post in a short series on my experiences with grief. Post 1, Post 2, Post 3. 

Growing up with Grief: Bubby

This year marked 10 years since Bubby passed away. I documented my feelings regarding the anniversary here.

While every loss affected me, Bubby’s had the most impact. I grew up believing he was immortal. I thought he would live to see me get married and he didn’t even live to see me graduate from high school. He was a father figure, a constant in my life, the person I could always count on.

He is responsible for my deathly fear of drains because he would always warn me not to fall into the storm drains on our walks. We walked all over Camp Bowie and Bluebonnet Hills, talking and having fun. One time we found a stray dog and brought him back home. My Mom opened the door and saw a little girl holding a dog and an old man begging her “Can we keep him?”. My Mom jokingly threatened him if he bought me one more stuffed animal. My bed and bookshelves were full of them. He spoiled me absolutely rotten but he also made sure I learned how to be appreciative and humble. He let me circle what I wanted in the JCPenney’s catalog every Christmas but would give me a budget on trips to Toys R’ Us. I would hold one item in my hand until I found something else I wanted more, always asking “Is this in the budget?”.

I don’t want it to appear that our relationship was only material, we had very deep talks about life starting at a very young age. His gentle spirit helped shape much of my personalty. He ensured I knew to treat everyone fairly, with kindness, to extend a helping hand when able. He was also a sharp dresser. He had hundreds ties that he paired with his pressed suits. I have vivid memories of running up for hugs and feeling tweed on my cheek and smelling Rive Gauche. I miss him so damn much.

It was my Mom’s 40th birthday, I was 15 and just got my learners permit so I drove her to Mexican Inn for a birthday dinner. I was even going to pay, I was so excited and felt so grown up. She got a call right after we finished eating saying he was being sent to the hospital. I drove to the doctors office, both hands at 10 and 2, absolutely terrified. Bubby had open heart surgery a few years prior and had a history of problems but this was jarring.

My Mom went to park the car while I helped him check in. I suddenly had to grow up very quickly as the nurse handed me his jean Peanuts jacket as he laid down for an EKG. I was hoping my Mom would return quickly because I couldn’t answer their questions. We were discharged a couple days later – a diagnosis of Congestive Heart Failure. Even though my Mom and Grandmother put on a brave face I had a feeling this was the beginning of the end.

That was January, by the end of March he had to move in with my grandmother. He rapidly declined over the course of a few weeks. The once enthusiastic and loving rock of the family had now withered to a shell of himself.

I distinctly remember being called in to his room at my Grandmothers house so he could say goodbye. The tears well up as I think about it now, even all these years later. It’s incredible how easy it is to still cry at the drop of a hat, how the searing pain returns with one memory. My Dad, Mom, and Grandmother were all standing a around the room and there was an empty chair next to his bed for me. He extended his pale hand and I met him with mine. At the time I wasn’t able to process the heaviness of the moment. He started off by saying “Baby girl I’m sorry for never having kids.. I’m sorry you didn’t have cousins to grow up with”. I laughed as it was something that never bothered me. The rest is a blur but he told me he was proud of me, knew I would go on to do great things, and told me how wonderful my parents were.

After that night he slipped into a semi-conscious state. Hospice nurses started pulling longer shifts. The morphine increased. The night of April 12th he started talking to his parents and people who had passed long before. I don’t know how I feel about religion anymore but after watching Bubby die I do believe in something after life. He was cheerfully greeting them as if they were right in front of him, even though he was obviously not conscious anymore. That night we stayed up as the death rattle began – one of the most terrifying sounds. My Mom sent me to bed. I woke up to my Mom wrapping her arms around me, quietly saying “he’s gone”. My Dad raced over, it was probably 4 or 5am and held me in that guest bedroom. I felt hollow until I heard the gurney roll across the tile floor and then I felt like the world was ending. It was really over.

The next few days were a whirlwind of funeral planning, a visitation, many tears. When we viewed his body in the family room my Aunt tried to adjust his tie and I screamed. I couldn’t believe a man so full of life was laying in front of me lifeless.

The proceeding months were extremely difficult. Five months later I lost my mentor, my guitar teacher to lung cancer. I started skipping school because I couldn’t stand the thought of being around other people. I found solace in my youth group and I really credit those experiences for keeping me going. It was a wonderful outlet.

Now, 10 years later, here I am and I have no idea how I survived. I lost my composure several times writing about these surface details of a very complicated and difficult issue. Bubby taught me how to live and he taught me how to die. His last days were filled with love and honesty. His death was so difficult to endure at a tender age but in many ways I am thankful for the experience. It gave me such a deep understanding that many find difficult.

I frequently visit his grave and talk to him, give him life updates and ask for advice. It’s very cathartic. Cemeteries are comforting to me, it connects you to your loved once since it’s the last place they were. Trying to connect with them without something solid to touch is frustrating. At the cemetery I feel like I’m with him again.

While I so desperately wish he was still here with me, I am thankful for the life lessons he taught me in our short 15 years together. I hope I can be half the human he was one day.

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This is the third post in a short series on my experiences with grief. Post 1, Post 2. 

Growing up with Grief: Tyler

It started on McPherson Avenue on a Sunday night in 2004. My Mom was driving me to 8ish, a contemporary worship service geared toward college students. I was 14 at the time but my youth minister ran the service and I preferred contemporary worship. My Mom got a call from my Dad and his tone caused her to immediately pull over. After an agonizing few seconds she looked over to me and said “Tyler died, he overdosed at a party”.

Tyler and I were the same age – a mere two weeks apart – and had both just started our freshman year of high school. Tyler was on the football team, a natural athlete, and the life of the family. He was a comedian, always making us laugh whether it was one of our family trips to the lake or that one time he fell in the fountain at Six Flags. Hearing this news left me immediately numb. I wasn’t sure what to feel. My Mom asked if I still wanted to go to 8ish and I did because I didn’t know what else to do.

In the service they played You Alone by David Crowder – the hook rang out “I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive” and it hit me like a ton of bricks – he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. My Mom picked me up, and told me more details – house party, his friends Mom’s xanax, and alcohol. They saw him foaming at the mouth and unresponsive but were too scared to call 911.

We made shirts for the next football game. My Aunt became a hollow shell of herself. His visitation was open casket and marked the first time I saw a dead body. He was in his jersey, signature number 86, but his body was puffy and pale and he didn’t look like his happy self. That image haunted me for a long, long time. It spurred nightmares of dead bodies under my bed, I left my light on to sleep for nearly a year afterwards.

Life moved on, but we all stood still, weighed down by the realization that nothing would ever be the same. This year, 11 years later, my Aunt finally said “I think this is the first year I actually feel like things will be okay”. While we were all left in deaths wake, losing your child is just unimaginable, especially so young. So much potential, so many what-ifs, so many questions left unanswered.

Tyler’s death hit me hard because it was the first death of someone I was really close to, he was so young and we were so close in age. It was the first domino in a series of losses that heavily defined my youth. I did not touch alcohol until I was 22 and I attribute that to the fears around Tyler’s death. The loss sobered me up to the reality of life and I felt like I had no one to relate to at school. Everyone was concerned with homecoming, homework, and teenage drama and I was doing my best to stay afloat in a world that suddenly made no sense.

I often joke that most peoples youth are about life but mine was about death. Don’t get me wrong, I had my share of wonderful experiences and love my friends dearly, but it was rough. It was compounded by being an only child and having no one my age to turn to with similar experiences.

Tyler taught me a lot of lessons – to find joy in the small things, that family comes first, and laughter is the best medicine – but also the harsh reality that actions have consequences and your first mistake can be your last. A tough pill to swallow at 14, even tougher now at 26.

 

Growing up with Grief

The majority of youth was about death. I lost 5 loved ones between the ages of 14 and 19. I saw a dead body for the first time before I had my first kiss. I heard the death rattle, watched the slow deterioration of organ failure, saw the blood stain on the floor, watched his cheeks hollow from the chemo.

As emotional as I am, I often kept my feelings regarding these losses stuffed deep inside. They only bubble to the surface during stressful times or anniversaries. I never went to therapy or took medication and I have never spoken about my experiences in great detail. While the deep pain scarred me, I understand crucial life lessons that often take decades to learn.

Grief has no stopping point, no end game, no winner. Grief is a journey, at times the path is smooth and flat and other times its steep and difficult.  Your Monday mornings will slowly stop feeling like a punch to the gut, the exact time you got the call will stop stinging so badly, and you will come to learn your own strength.

I want to get some things out of the way that no one ever told me it was okay to do:

It’s okay to fall on the floor and cry.

It’s okay to lay on the ground if it comforts you.

It’s okay to step away from your desk (or close the door) and cry.

It’s okay to cry in general.

It’s okay to be mad, furious even.

It’s okay to curse at whatever god you believe in.

It’s okay to question whatever god you believe in.

It’s okay to still get upset when it feels like everyone else has moved on.

There is no right way to grieve. 

Yes, there are stages of grief but they are not concrete. They manifest in different ways for everyone and can change depending on the scenario. I grieved very differently for Bubby, my great-uncle who passed away in his 70s, than I did for my friend Nathan who committed suicide. I cycled through the same stages but with very different processes, timing, and thoughts.

The pain does not go away, it simply lessens with time. The wound will scab and turn to a scar. One moment – the smell of a strangers cologne, a familiar route, a funny movie – and the feelings return with a vengeance. I recently went through a difficult time at work and found myself crying to my Mom about how I missed Bubby. After 10 years I still missed his comforting presence. The deep longing never goes away.

So where do I go from here? I haven’t quite figured it out yet. I know I want to dedicate my life to helping others, but how? I am so private that I do not share my story. This blog (of sorts) is a feeble attempt. I want to start by writing about the deaths that affected me so deeply. I will attempt to honor their lives and outline the impact on my life in the next few posts.

10 Years

10 years ago the world lost one of the most kind-hearted, gentle spirits to ever grace this earth. His name was Howard but he was affectionately known as Bubby. He always joked that he was a great uncle and I just made him “legit”. His legacy started before I was born – he dedicated his life to helping others; whether it was his sister as she raised my Mom and siblings on her own, helping an elderly church member, or assisting a family in the JC Penney furniture department. He was a sharp-dresser and had a quick wit. He loved Peanuts, reading and good movies. Nothing was as comforting as running up to him for hug and feeling the tweed of his suit against my cheek and smelling Rive Gauche cologne. He was so patient with me as a child – he took the time to get to know me, he listened and had adult conversations with me. He taught me how to be frugal by taking me to Toys R’ Us and giving me a spending limit, all while patiently waiting for me to decide which toy. He would then turn around and spoil me at Christmas by letting me circle things throughout the entire JC Penney catalog. He trusted me to drive his Cadillac when I got my learners permit even though it took me smashing BOTH feet on the brakes to stop.

He taught me how to live with grace and how to die with dignity. I was 15 when I watched him take his last breath. The last few days of his life were the most painful times I have ever been through,but he showed nothing but peace. He spoke to everyone, apologized to me for never having kids, thanked my Dad for being a good man, praised my Mom for how well she raised me. The sound of the gurney across the tile floor that night took my Bubby and my innocence away. It catapulted me into a journey of grief that still continues to this day. Although time has lessened the blow, I find myself crying every once in a while as I dream of what he would think of me today. I thought he would see me get married and he didn’t even live to see me graduate. I lost my cousin before Bubby died and I lost Scott and Nathan after. I feel like the past 10 years have been one long struggle through loss. Death robbed my youth, my innocence, my sense of happiness. My life has been about death and the subsequent emotions but I am stronger for it. I feel it every day.

I miss my Bubby so much it hurts. I would give anything to have one last conversation with him, to hear his laugh, to see him smile. There are so many times I have needed his wisdom. The legacy he left will stay with me forever – to treat everyone with compassion, to love with reckless abandon, to care for your family, to love without judgement.
I wish everyone could have a Bubby in their life – someone who loves without judgement, who has a childlike heart, who is selfless, who is willing to meet you where you are. Someone who will accept you, encourage you, believe in you, and always be on your side. I hope one day to be half the person my Bubby was. I miss him so much it hurts.

As my Mom said in his eulogy, “I would like to paraphrase a quote from Alice Walker who wrote “the Color Purple” that perfectly describes Howard:“For a happy few of us there is the good fortune of having a Bubby in our childhood.  Someone who erases the boundaries between children and adults, whose faults gentle us into tolerance and charity, whose praise makes us strong and proud – and whose love helps us to understand what love really is”.

I will never, ever let his legacy be forgotten, as long as a live. I have spent many nights angry, wondering why such a good person was taken away. I will never have all the answers, all I will have is the comfort of knowing I was so very blessed to have this man in my life, no matter how short the time was.

“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.”

― Elisabeth Kübler-Ross