An Irish Goodbye
By E. Carry
(TW/CW: grief, grandparent loss, Catholic upbringing)
I was born into a big family — the Irish-Catholic way. Most of that family is gone now, and those left are dysfunctionally disconnected — another one of the Irish-Catholic ways.
Once upon a time, we had a matriarch. And what a matriarch she was. She was Helen Clare to many, but she was always Nana to me. When I needed advice on friendship, flower gardens, medical care, or anything really, I went to her. When everything was wrong and could be cured by only one hug, it was hers. The best childhood memories I cling to were the ones in her house — both of her houses.
Before my grandfather died, they lived a reasonable half hour away from my parents’ house, so we ate dinner there on many weeknights. My mom has since explained that she did that to save money, but all that mattered to me was spending time in my favorite place with my favorite people, my grandparents. My sister and I spent many summer days there, learning which of my mother’s childhood toys stood the test of time and which walls held the most ghosts. Eventually, my grandfather moved to a nursing home when his health declined too far, and, on one particularly terrible day, I stood in the kitchen alongside my Nana when the nursing home called to say he’d passed.
After my grandfather died, Nana sold their house and downsized to a townhouse across the street from my parents. I essentially lived there on weekends and most weeknights. After particularly bad school days, I would walk straight out of the minivan over to Nana’s front door, bypassing my own house entirely. Many a Bing Crosby, Perry Como, or Irish folk album was played in that kitchen with my Nana belting her brogued accompaniment, cigarette and coffee in hand. Many hands of War and Old Maid were played, with my blatant cheating never called out. I taught her to use her large-buttoned TV remote so we could watch Judge Judy, soap operas, true crime, QVC shopping network — you name it. Nana taught me the true art of mindless television, and she’d let me watch the music videos my parents tried to ban. I’d help answer all the modern pop culture questions of her crossword puzzles. We’d trade newspaper sections in silence sometimes, and, on gloomier days, we’d just talk about my grandfather until the sun went down. We missed him deeply and had experienced the worst day of our lives together, but at least we were together in it.
She lived in that townhouse on our street for the last three years of her life. She lived there until the day she was carried out by paramedics for her last hospital stay. It was the day after President’s Day — I was wearing red, white, and blue instead of my middle school uniform. We spent hours at her bedside and I begged my mother to let me stay for the duration. She said she didn’t have the strength to be there any longer, so we gathered our things to leave.
“Say goodbye to Nana. Remember, sweetie, this is probably the last time you’re ever going to see her.” Knowing full well that I’d already attended eighteen funerals, she had no reason to explain it down to me quite so pedantically.
“She’ll be okay. Well, not really okay. But Aunt Robin will stay with her, so that will be okay. Anyway, let’s get going. Remember, you’ve got school tomorrow, kid.” My heart had never felt heavier.
There were a million things I wanted to say to the strong, beautiful, kind woman that raised me. But I couldn’t say any of it with my mom waiting expectantly in the doorway, equally impatient to leave and eager to listen to everything I might say.
I stared into Nana’s eyes, as blue as ever, but so much wider than I was used to seeing. She was unable to speak from the intubation, and her face held so much fear I felt strings inside my heart just snap.
So I just said, “Goodnight, Nana. I hope you sleep tight. God bless you. I love you,” except I slurred it together the way my family always said it — more along the lines of “godbleshya, iluvya.”
I had long since given up on any concept of God, but I kept up the charade for the people to whom it mattered. It took every ounce of control I had to hold back my tears to speak, but I sensed in her panicked eyes that she needed to feel calm and normal. To this day, I wish I’d said so much more and so much else.
Nana spent the next three days on a morphine drip with Aunt Robin praying beside her. In those long days before she passed, my mother emptied out Nana’s entire house. She planned and scheduled her mother’s funeral while she was still alive in a hospital bed thirty minutes away. My mother tends to be a deeply unsentimental woman, at least in the moments it matters most.
Her funeral was the last day that side of my family existed; everyone fell apart in separate directions without her. I have a triquetra tattooed over my heart to keep close to me the little trio of a family I always wanted to keep: my grandparents with me. Nana taught me to cook in her kitchen and she also taught me everything worth knowing for the first twelve years of my life. I carry her in every part of my heart, mind, and soul still at age nearly-thirty.
She was a believer in the concept of guardian angels, like most of us who’ve known great loss. I have a long-standing beef against religion and the concept of god with a capital G, but I do consider myself spiritual in a much hippier way. I most certainly do feel my favorite people’s spirits guarding me all the time. I used to have a big family, and I still do; where they’re no longer physically here, their impact, lessons, and memories stay with me.
