Little Rascal: Always Holding her Heart with Two Hands

It's St. Patrick's day-- the one day a year when every American truly believes that he or she is 90% Irish and gives a nod to their Irish roots with something truly traditional, like a green Coors Light, or a strand of plastic Mardi Gras beads.

I've always been interested in my dad's stories about his mom's side of the family-- a group of interesting people who were Irish off the boat and all the way back to the mother country. I was always especially interested in the blatant hatred that Americans (I say that for lack of a better word for: 'Bunch of Mutts, Yourselves") showed for the Irish in this country. (Until five minutes ago... when claiming to be Irish gained a little more sex appeal in this country)

I never had the opportunity to meet my dad's parents-- they died six months apart when he was a sophomore in college-- but I always associated his mom with St. Patrick's day, and I always thought of her fondly on this date, thinking about her family's struggle to find work as teachers and horse trainers in communities that wouldn't have even wanted them to wipe their arses.

Two years ago, March was not a kind one for my family. I had dark circles under my eyes, I was experiencing awful bouts of insomnia, I was coming out of the aftermath of a traumatic personal experience, and my closest friends at the time were taking what was left of my psyche and convincing me that I was the Irish equivalent of a friend-- a fun time, but not quite good enough for their arse.

At the time, I honestly didn't notice any of these things. I was realizing with a nightmare-like swiftness the meaning of family-- the smallness of it, the fragility of it. My grandmother had been ill with what we later learned was a long, long series of small strokes, and for months her only visitors were me, my parents, my uncle, and a nursing home employee with a Turkish accent so thick that I literally couldn't understand her.

Every day, the first and last person my grandmother saw was this small Turkish woman, with dark brown hair and fast, somewhat annoyed looking facial expressions. I was grateful to this woman for lifting my beautiful, fragile grandmother out of her bed every morning-- for standing with her as she showered, and spooning food to her when her arms were too tired. But honestly, deep inside myself, I hated her. I hated her because my grandmother-- our Ruth-- was probably just another quasi-stranger to her, another patron at the old folk's home. I hated her because my grandmother was a series of feeding and bathroom schedules to her, and because she NEVER spoke louder or slower, and actually clucked angrily half the times my grandmother asked her to repeat the question. I hated her because feeling anything else in that little room with a hospital bed and a view of the parking lot just hurt.

I hated seeing my grandmother sick, I hated seeing the complete loss of understanding in her eyes when her brisque, fast-speaking caretaker talked to her, and I hated the spiral of guilt and anger that I felt every time I left the nursing home.

The little distractions from my slow heartbreak were not exactly helpful
On March 13th, I was on a 12-hour long studio shoot in Denver as my parents were in Longmont, holding my beloved dog of thirteen years in their arms as she was put to sleep. Her kidneys had been failing, and for two weeks she'd been in a state of complete misery, locked into a kennel at the vets and then the emergency vet clinic. Toward the end, she didn't recognize us. The last time I saw her, her back was turned, and she was curled into the smallest ball possible. I sat on the floor and spoke to her softly, very lovingly, waiting for her ears to perk as they always did, or for her to turn her head and greet me-- her eyes lighting up, her lips stuck out kind of funny from being mashed into the floor as she slept.
Fergie didn't move when I said my good morning, so I reached into the cage and stroked her back as gently as possible. She was too sick to move, but I heard the faintest, angriest attempt at a growl that she could muster. Hair stuck to my fingers from where I'd touched her-- they looked like limp, wet feathers on a bird who had just fallen out of its nest.
I could feel, in every inch of her, that she hurt. That she had no idea who I was. And that my best friend-- my Lassie, my companion in the passenger seat, the warm sleeping body that stretched out on my bed every night of my life-- would be gone without any kind of goodbye. "You're a good dog," I said quietly. She didn't move a muscle.

I wept for about 48 straight hours after we put her down. No one had the heart to tell my grandmother, who adored Fergie as much as the rest of us, so we just sat by her bed with red-rimmed eyes and pre-meditated stories about the weather or the news.
On the third day, when I had gone through every tissue in my apartment and my face was chapped from crying and snow, I went out with a friend. "I need to celebrate St Patrick's day the night before the actual holiday," I told him. "I need to drink a Guinness and count down from ten and say 'yay' at the end because otherwise, I think I'm going to lose my mind. And anyway, I love this holiday."
We went to the Dark Horse, sat in the booth where we always sat, and ordered two tall dark beers. We kept an eye on my watch until 10pm, which somehow felt celebratory to me, and I counted down to ten before we both clinked glasses and took a long, genuine sip.

I thought about my dad's mother and her Irish relatives. I thought about the smart, happy and completely loyal furry friend who had slept at my feet for thirteen years, and how lucky we were to have had her. I thought about my grandmother, who was still completely herself, even as her body betrayed the clarity of her spirit. And I thought about the year ahead-- the possibility of all the things that might inspire and improve the person I was trying so hard to become.
It was the best beer I've ever had. It washed down the grief and the exhaustion, leaving a crisp, quiet flavor in my mouth.

For the first time in an incredibly long time, I felt some semblance of real peace. I went to bed that night hungry for a dreamless sleep.
At 7am, my cell phone rang-- the call from my father that my grandmother had passed away.
Her assistant had been helping her to the shower-- she had said how excited she was to see her family that day, and then in an instant, she was just gone.

It was Saint Patrick's day. There were paper shamrocks on the tables in the dining area, and the man from the funeral home who waited like a shadow in the hallway until we left wore a light green tie with his black suit.


The eulogy I wrote for my grandmother brought me a lot of relief-- it painted a portrait of a woman who was loving, and sweet, and whose fingernails made a gentle 'clacking' sound on the piano keys when she played and sang songs from the 40s. She always laughed, always, and any affectionate or surprised exclamation about any of us was always the same-- "you rascal!" As the youngest in the family, I claimed the title of the little rascal. She was the epitome of femininity to me, and still is.
Weeks later, she broke my heart when I learned that she had left two things to me in her will: a jewelry box full of her costume jewelry from the 50s and 60s that I had pined for as a child-- I used to drape the necklaces over my forehead to pretend I was the princess from the "Never Ending Story". She had also, with no pomp or circumstance, left me her engagement ring-- a tiny, tiny diamond, embedded in a tiny, delicate gold band.

I dedicate today to my grandmothers-- to the one I will only know through my father's memories, and the other for her presence at my birthdays, my high school graduation, my childhood and early adulthood. To her generosity for leaving me her most valuable possession, which is now my most valuable possession. For being my mother's mother, and teaching me through her generational power, how to someday be a mother myself. For never yelling and for always bringing laughter into my home. For bringing Fergie a gift-wrapped Christmas present every single year, and for knowing just how to pat her to send her into Corgi-bliss as the two sweetest girls in our family watched protectively over their tiny family.

Happy St. Patrick's day, dear Ruthie. I raise my glass to you.