Besides wanting to extend the olive branch to my parents by braving the fifteen-hour cross country flight and Hurricane Irene (see previous column for gruesome details), the other reason I ventured the journey back east was to reconnect with extended relatives.
Before the trip even began I started an email correspondence with an uncle whom I hadn’t seen nor spoken to in six years. He is a quiet man who lives over three thousand miles away so I haven’t had that many opportunities to connect with him. Yet, ever since I was a teenager, I’ve been fascinated by him and suspected a kindred spirit. His email to me, “Wow! I had the feeling that we were on the same page, but your email reveals just on how many levels that is so,” confirmed the affinity I have felt.
Upon seeing each other for the first time in years, my aunt and I huddled together immediately, giggling like schoolgirls while husking corn for dinner. She was the first person to email me after my book was published to offer her congratulations as well as condolences about the misdeeds that happened to me as a child that I revealed in my book. While other relatives chose to ignore my divorce, she always acknowledged it and again offered congratulations and condolences. “In my opinion,” she told me while husking corn, “Your first marriage is merely a trial run. You learn a lot and then hopefully improve on that learning through your second relationship. But I’ll never remarry, that ruins things.” I nodded my head and listened with rapt interest as she explained how she’s navigated dating and a serious long-term relationship while being a single mother.
Throughout all of the chaos and change of plans about when and how I would get up to Philadelphia to see my ailing grandmother, her son, and my uncle, remained calm and supportive. The hurricane, closing of airports, flooding, and my awful sense of direction caused me to arrive three days and a couple of hours after I originally planned. Not showing any signs of irritation, he greeted me by jumping out of his seat, yelling, “There she is!”, and embracing me in a huge hug. And within a minute, candidly (and accurately) predicted how each relative was behaving down in North Carolina. “Wow,” I smiled. “It’s so refreshing to be around someone so honest. We don’t often talk like this in the family.”
“That’s because we’re all in denial and we’re all screwed up,” he laughed. I laughed as well, because I knew exactly what he was talking about. We shared writing horror stories and successes, poked fun of a few relatives, praised others, and then quieted down so my grandmother could speak.
Without ever saying so, everyone in the room knew this would be the last time I would see her. She’s ninety-two years old and although her mind is still sharp, her body is failing her. And more importantly, her will to live is waning. She’s been an artist her whole life, but now her eyesight is too blurry and her muscles don’t respond in the way she wants them to, preventing her from painting. Even worse, her husband, lovers, and many of her friends have already passed on and she is no longer able to live the vibrant life she was living up until a year ago.
I held her hand, kissed her cheek, and then sat down next to her bed. We gazed at one another for a minute, her eyes filling with tears, my tears pouring down my face, but both of us smiling. She told me the story behind my grandfather’s death due to lung cancer and how she felt she owed it to him to keep the family together. “But why?” I asked. “You were only married for a couple of years and we’re a family of addicts and crazies. Why would you stick around?”
She laughed, said it was more good times than bad, then grew serious and said, “Because that’s what he always wanted—for the family to come together.”
We held each other’s gaze, again both knowing, but not saying, that I have been rebuffing my parents for the past couple of years. I explained that I’ve acted in the way I have lately in order to ensure I don’t make some of the same mistakes I feel my parents have. “Oh,” she sighed. “You can never do enough as a parent. You’ll make the same or different mistakes and your kids will resent you, but hopefully they’ll forgive you as well.” She paused here, turned her head to look directly at me and said, “It’s a lot easier to forgive then to be angry. And it takes a lot less energy.” I cried even harder, knowing she was right, but not knowing if I was at the forgiving state yet.
She shared more family stories with me, some of which I knew, many of which I didn’t. She started to fall asleep and it was time for me to go back to the airport, so with reluctance, I stood up to say good-bye. I kissed her cheek again and told her I love her. When I bent over to hug her, she quietly said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about your mother.” I nodded, always having suspected my mother had a less than ideal childhood and that’s why she never talks about it. I cried most of the way to the airport, but more due to relief than sadness.
Upon returning to Seattle I shared this story with a friend. “You have to fly back there and ask her what she meant by that,” the friend said. “Don’t tell anyone you’re going, just see your grandmother on your own so you can get the whole family saga.”
I shook my head and said, “No, you don’t get it. I got everything I needed and more from this trip.”
Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She has been a writing coach and instructor for over fifteen years and currently sees clients in the old Carnegie Library Building in Ballard. She is currently offering a 20 for $20 special, twenty minute coaching/editing sessions for $20. Contact her for details.
