Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong
Page 24
The following winter Mama and Chox hosted a tea at Mamaw and Papaw’s house to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Mama and Choxie’s brother, Bill, who lived three hours away, was there too, and in my opinion Bill’s presence always elevated a family gathering a couple of notches. He drove a sports car, reminded me of Burt Reynolds, and delivered one-liners better than anybody else I knew. If that weren’t enough, Mama and Chox let Paige and me serve the punch, and we were certain such a grown-up responsibility meant we’d hit the big time. Papaw wore his nicest suit, and Mamaw wore a pretty dress that she’d made for the occasion, along with a corsage that Sister had bought for her at a florist’s shop in Myrtlewood. They made an adorable couple.
Papaw’s personality came alive in a big group of folks, so he was in his element that afternoon. Mamaw, on the other hand, was much more introverted and soft spoken. Every once in a while Papaw would put his hand on her back and whisper, “You doing okay, Lucy?”
She’d grin and say, “I’m fine, John.”
But even at eleven years old I knew it was hard for her to be the center of attention. Her sweet, servant spirit shone just fine without the aid of any limelight, and part of me wondered if she wasn’t going to sneak out of her own anniversary party so she could get in the kitchen and make everybody some chicken and dumplings. She hung in there with the socializing, though, and she stood by Papaw’s side until the front door closed and Mama and Chox practically raced to see who could be the first one to take off her high-heeled shoes.
What none of us knew at the time, though, was how much Mamaw was struggling with her health. Then again, not even she knew how sick she was. Having been plagued by a general feeling of weakness as well as liver problems during the past several years, she initially thought that she was dealing with more of the same. Over the next few months, however, she and Papaw traveled to Myrtlewood almost weekly for doctor’s visits, and early that fall—about eight months after their fiftieth anniversary—Papaw told the family that the doctor had confirmed their worst fear: cancer. Other than helping Mamaw manage her pain and keeping her as comfortable as possible, there wasn’t much the doctors could do.
Mamaw was admitted to the hospital in Myrtlewood right before Thanksgiving, and for the next two weeks Mama, Chox, and Papaw rarely left her side. Mama would pick up Paige and me from school—we were fourteen and twelve at that point—and we’d do our homework in the waiting room down the hall from Mamaw’s room while we drank Cokes and ate Dolly Madison fruit pies from the vending machine. Mama or Chox would take us downstairs to the hospital cafeteria for supper, and we’d eventually go home whenever they felt Mamaw was settled for the night. It broke their hearts to see her in pain, and they took their role as her advocates very seriously. It wasn’t quite like Shirley MacLaine at the nurses’ station in Terms of Endearment—Mama and Chox were far too polite to make a scene—but in their own Southern ways, they didn’t mess around.
By mid-December the weather had turned windy and cold, and Mamaw showed no signs of getting better. One Tuesday night Papaw needed to drive back to Moss Rose to get a change of clothes and a few other things, and since Mama and Chox didn’t want him to stay at the house by himself, they suggested that he take Paige and me with him. We had school the next day, but they were far more worried about Papaw than about our missing an hour of social studies. So off we went.
The ride to Moss Rose in Papaw’s Oldsmobile 88 was a quiet one, and by the time we arrived at Mamaw and Papaw’s house, we were all pretty worn out. It was the first time I’d walked through their back door without immediately seeing Mamaw standing at the stove, and while we didn’t stop and take time to vocalize our feelings or anything like that, I think it’s safe to say that we all felt her absence.
Paige and I brushed our teeth in silence that night, standing in the guest bath that always smelled like a combination of rubbing alcohol and Mercurochrome. We walked down the hall to tell Papaw good-night and found him lying on top of the bedspread, staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest. Paige and I sat down beside him, not really knowing what to say. Papaw spoke up first and uttered six words that have stayed with me for more than thirty years.
“She was mighty sweet, wasn’t she?”
It struck me as strange that he used the past tense, but Paige and I certainly didn’t correct him. We tried our best to comfort him as his shoulders began to shake and the tears started to fall. And while I don’t have any idea what time it was when Paige and I finally fell asleep, I do know that Papaw’s quiet sobs were the last sound either of us heard.
Early the next morning, around five o’clock, there was a knock on the door. Mama, Daddy, Chox, and Joe had come to tell us what Papaw’s heart had told him the night before.
Up to that point in my life—and I was every bit of twelve years old—I’d been all about ballet lessons, my snazzy new Merlin game, American Top 40, and Nancy Drew mysteries. So for me, Mamaw’s death was my first glimpse into what family life looks like in the midst of sadness and grief and heartache. I couldn’t have put words to it at the time, I don’t think, but somehow I could sense that there was beauty in all that brokenness, that there were little patches of light that permeated the darkness. Yes, there was sorrow and pain—but there was also love and comfort and laughter and joy. There was a confidence that something bigger was at work, an assurance of “an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Corinthians 4:17, NIV).
So while Mamaw’s death certainly isn’t my happiest memory, I can honestly say that it will forever be one that I treasure. Because that memory, by God’s grace, continues to teach me.
And even now, more than three decades later, I hold that memory in my heart real tight.
And I watch.
And I listen.