Lest I Forget Others

Listen to Patti tell the story.
This one was difficult for me to read out loud. There are some pauses where I had to take a moment to gather my emotions before I could read again.

Over Memorial Day weekend, my mom and I decorate graves of family members. Fifteen years in, I can safely say it’s become “our thing.” With each year that passes, I more deeply appreciate this tradition of taking time to honor the memories of our loved ones. And, I get to create a new memory with my mom.

My grandpa’s house, south of Britt, holds lots of memories. My grandpa was a charismatic and proud man. Every time I visited his house, he would open the front door with a bright smile, a welcoming chuckle, and give me the kind of hug that made me feel like my presence was wanted. A farmer his entire life, he was a physically strong man, and his hugs were tight, meaningful.

In that front entryway, where I’d received so many hugs from my grandpa, is the base of the home’s staircase. During the time my grandpa lived there, the steps were covered in forest-green carpet. You know, the kind from the 1950’s that had a textured pattern and never wore out. On that staircase, purses got snuggled into the corners of the bottom steps, and coats were slung over the rail. At Christmastime, we grandchildren would slide down the steps – first on our bums, then our tummies – giggling and pushing each other. That staircase hosted important moments, like a daughter descending in a lovely dress heading off to prom, and visiting relatives ascending with suitcases in tow. As a shy child, that staircase was a safe haven for me. Sometimes, when family gatherings got too “people-y,” I’d sit quietly at the top – just out of sight, pretending to be invisible – until my anxiousness subsided.

That staircase is a time capsule saturated in memories. It is a witness to a family.
In the fall of 1961 at 51 years of age, my grandma had a massive stroke. She laid incapacitated in the Britt hospital for 2 days, and then she died. Those who knew her well remember her as a compassionate woman, devout to her Christian faith, who excelled at providing emotional support, especially to her family. My grandma was blessed with a special gift – the ability to listen without judging.

Born in the 1970’s, I never knew her, and yet I miss her every day. As a little girl shyly sitting atop the forest-green carpeted staircase, I always felt comforted there, and not just because I’m an introvert and quiet makes me feel better. But, because I felt a calming presence with me, holding me secure. I choose to believe it was grandma.

She died too early and missed important moments. Only three of her grandchildren knew her, and they were babies when she died. She wasn’t there to welcome her youngest when he came home from Vietnam. Nor, was she there to be a nurturing matriarch to her family when her oldest died unexpectedly. She missed birthdays. She missed graduations. She missed weddings.

Grandma’s life and death has always been half mystery, half legend to me. The only thing I’ve known for sure is that she had a massive stroke, dying suddenly at a relatively young age. My aunt, who lived near her parents in 1961, was able to fill the gaps in the story. Here’s the short version: throughout her last days, my grandma was having a painful headache “spell” and often needed to lie down and rest on the couch. At some point, my grandpa took her upstairs to lie down in their darkened bedroom, a place where she’d recovered so many times before.

And then, things got worse.

Called in from doing cattle chores, alerted that something was seriously wrong, my grandpa went upstairs to find her. When he came down the stairs, he was carrying his dying wife in his arms. That was the last time my grandma’s living, human presence graced the forest-green carpeted staircase. Carrying his bride over the threshold out of their home, I can only imagine the desperate, helpless panic that overcame this strong, capable man as he drove her to the hospital. After sleepless hours holding her hand, talking with doctors, and even giving her chest compressions when the nurse needed a break, he broke down the moment she died, sobbing so forcefully he was unable to speak. The memories created because of my grandma’s death are deep and intense, like a howling, sharp wind blustering through the alley of a corn crib during a winter storm. The absence of her nurturing presence left an empty loneliness still deeply felt nearly 60 years later.

Knowing what I know now about strokes, her having regular, debilitating headaches for the last several years of her life was a screaming warning siren, like a noon whistle that never stops. Curious, I asked my dad for more information. Dusting off sad memories he’d put on a shelf in his mind decades previous, he recalled the pieces of the puzzle that he knew. A few years before she died, my grandparents traveled to Mayo Clinic in hopes the doctors there could figure out why my grandma had such severe headaches. Even though the doctors had many opinions, they weren’t sure what was wrong with her. There were so many unanswered questions. What the doctors were sure of, though, was that they weren’t able to cure her. She was told to go home and enjoy the rest of her life. And, that she needed to be around loving family. My grandparents didn’t know it, but her condition was a ticking time bomb. It was just a matter of time.

As I looked deeply into my dad’s pensive, memory-laden face, I felt my pulse beat loudly and deeply in my gut. My breathing suspended, like that weightless feeling you get when you’re at the apex of a roller coaster. As the heaviness of what I’d heard hit me, I slowly exhaled and whispered,

“Oh my God. If only they’d known.”

If only they’d known her time was so limited. That their marriage was going to be shortened. That she would become a memory too soon. I choose to believe that in their own way my grandparents were appreciative and grateful for the small sliver of time they had left together.

Time can be cruel. Just when you understand enough to ask the question, the answer is gone. There are so many questions I’d like to ask my grandma like, “What is your favorite color?” and “Tell me about your childhood.” and “Why did you fall in love with grandpa?” I wish I could hear the sound of her voice. I wish I could feel the warmth of her holding me tight, making me feel like my presence was wanted. Just once I’d like to have those memories.

Decorating family graves with my mom is our tradition, our routine, our thing. She tells me stories about relatives I never knew, reminds me where everyone is buried, and we get ice cream cones. However, the most important thing that happens over Memorial Day weekend is I create a new memory with my mom.

Memories are valuable possessions. Take a moment to recall memories about someone special who is no longer present in your life, either by death or current circumstances. I’m guessing that happy memories come to mind. I’m also guessing unsettling, or even confusing, memories come to mind, too. You see, memories are a mixed bag, and we get to remember them all.

Being intentional about creating meaningful memories that last is worth the effort. It’s how we honor life as moments unfold, and the satisfying feelings nourish connection and well-being for as a long as the memory lives.

However, when events or reactions slide sideways on us, we’re left with memories crowded with emotional wounds that hurt. Being intentional about revisiting not-so-great memories in order to more fully understand, restore connection and foster well-being is really hard work. Really hard. It requires a courageous vulnerability that feels scary, risky, and gross. When done well, the process releases tension and unleashes a powerful, dynamic energy. For example, it wasn’t easy for my dad, my aunts, and my uncle to revisit memories about their mom. It brought up a lot of painful, old wounds that had been bottled-up for decades. It took courage to be that vulnerable. A courage that will have positive impact on their children, grandchildren, and generations yet to be born.

Taking the time necessary for this kind of conversation, and listening without judging, creates healing. A healing that contains truth, compassion, and empathy. A healing that honors legacy. A healing that builds trust, pouring the foundation for a fresh start.

Who in your life do you need to create meaningful memories with – the kind that will last? Who in your life do you need to revisit an unsettling memory with – the kind that deserves healing? What holds you back? Be brave… the future needs you to be brave.

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Patti Guenther. A student and facilitator of healing communication because I believe people are worth the risk. I write about what inspires me.

Writer’s note. Thank you to my dad, my aunts, and my uncle for sharing your memories about your mother and your father with me. This story has been nearly 60 years in the making, and I am honored that you trusted me to such a high degree that you were willing to share some of your most precious, tender memories with me. The conversations had with each of you will forever have a positive impact on me. Thank you for providing facts and eye-witness accounts, reviewing what I’ve written, and agreeing to let me post it on the internet. Grandma and Grandpa’s story inspires me, and I believe sharing it will create a positive impact in our world.