AnOublietteofThought

When I was but a child eagerly awaiting my first day of school, I rushed back and forth to the library via my tiny, little legs. My grandmother would speed walk along sidewalks lining traffic, and I would race upon the grass beside her. One day, I'd possibly be faster!

But go, we did not just do. The library was a magical place that always left me in awe. It was filled with books my future self might read, mysterious card catalogs that told adults what to do and where to go, and there was a room filled with music boxes; something I had only ever seen briefly on television. There was also the microfiche — an enchanted beastie for sure! I wasn't allowed to touch it, but she could bring history to our fingertips. Oh, the stories she shared! I was both riveted and enchanted, simultaneously.

With that said, you did not approach the grand height of steps bedraggled with dirty shins and grass in your hair. My dog ears glistened in the sunlight as they whipped at my waist, held in place by ribbons of the day. Usually puffy yarn like numbers that looked like I was wearing caterpillars. I'd either be in a dress or shorts and a triangular halter top; all lovingly stitched by her just for me.

Ever the little lady, I was practically a gallivanting rainbow of laughter and squeaks. If I recall correctly, my favorite outfit was a pink plaid dress with shoulder ruffles, clear buttons that held them in place, and matching shorts that were hidden underneath. I got the best of both worlds in my little outfits like that. I could be Ginger, up on stage performing musicals in my grandparents' living room, or I could be Mary Ann making mud pies, climbing trees, and doing everything better than the boys — my arch rivals!

I got both ridiculed and complimented on my dresses once school started. But I always loved the clothing my grandmother made me. I saw her bent over her sewing machine, allowing me to help in little ways. She also learned the good places for garage sales.

I think she was probably more aware of the teasing than I was. She always made sure to lift me up and feed my confidence in a healthy way. A true matriarch if ever there was one. My grandmother worked her fingers to the bone, held her head high, and could outshine any woman in her handsewn dresses. She was a role model.

Once I started having sleepovers with other children, I would get terrified at night. Having waking nightmares in an unfamiliar place was scary. No one knew that's what it was then. I just knew things came for me at night. Men with knives, omen with rocks, monsters with ropes and chains, and lots of fire. I would either wake up screaming and disturb the families, or often cry to go home. Those screams and tears often came with bed wetting.

It was most embarrassing. I also had “accidents” at school. I idolized teachers, and I couldn't stand to get in trouble with them because I really wanted them to like me. So I would try to hold it in. I didn't always succeed. That definitely got me taunted. Worse, I feared I'd ruined the pretty clothes my grandmother had made me. Especially because around that time, I started receiving more and more clothes from stores like K-Mart.

Did she not like making me dresses anymore? Was she upset with me because little ladies know how to properly use the restroom? Or worst of all, did I somehow hurt her feelings because I didn't take care of my pretty dresses?

One day, my fears were put to rest because she happened to overhear me with my Barbies. You see, my grandmother did not only make me dresses, she often made matching outfits for my Barbies. I believe she caught me chastising Skipper while trying to shove her into my Dream Kitchen's dishwasher as I had Barbie lecture her on stealing clothes and getting them dirty. I was probably loudly exclaiming what a bad and horribly filthy girl Skipper was. It didn't help that I never liked Skipper dolls.

I guess she understood the situation for what it was. I'm sure my mother would have told her about the accidents. I remember that she sat down on the floor with me and dressed up a Western Barbie in rodeo attire, plopped her on the back of one of my horses, and had her galloping into my kitchen — complete with horse sounds. (My family was in rodeo and I loved Mister Ed, so it was the perfect thing to do to get my attention. I loved seeing photos when she was in her rodeo attire.)

We had a real conversation about what was happening that day. I don't remember the words. I don't remember what was said. I remember her wrapping me in her arms while telling me she loved me, that I was beautiful, that I'd never make her mad over such an accident, and that anyone who teased me was jealous of my pretty dresses. And then we went to her fabric stash to pick out material for a new set, and I played with her buttons.

Fast forward several years to my teens. I was in a horrible accident that significantly constricted my movement. I had a catheter, but it was impossible for me to get to a toilet; even had one been beside the bed. My beautiful hair did not look so beautiful. I was covered in cuts and bruises. And I was forced to use a bed pan. Even raising myself enough to do that had me in tears from the physical pain. The psychological pain from humiliation was much worse. Especially since I was not accomplished at using such a device.

I had so many mental battles occurring at that time. I felt shame. I felt weak. I felt more vulnerable than I could possibly describe. I felt like a broken burden, and I could not get my body to listen to me. That kind of helplessness is a very challenging lesson to learn. It's a lesson that had to be learned, and I had choices to make.

It would be a while before I could make it to the restroom with a lot of help. I don't think I was very appreciative of that help. Nor did I realize at the time how challenging it must have been, both physically and mentally, for who were helping me. Both my fear and my physical and emotional pain had me verbally lashing out a lot. I had not gained control of my emotions yet in that way.

Once again, she showed up and was able to get through to me in a way no one else could. She had cut apart panties and had resewn them in a manner where I could dress and undress myself without as much difficulty. She also had a very adult, but loving heart-to-heart with me. That was a rough conversation, but it helped clear my head so that I could focus on what it'd take to get some independence back.

There was no physical therapy, and there was no easy way to overcome it. There was survival and my determination to prove the doctors wrong. They could have been right, but I had dreams to fulfill and promises to myself to keep.

She supported me every step of the way, and was watching each time I stepped upon a new stage or across a new threshold. The parade deck did not thrill her, but she drove halfway across the country to bring belated Christmas sweets and hug me with tears in her eyes. My grandmother did not cry in public, but she never hid the happy glisten from me.

Later, I'd experience more embarrassing moments where my body revolted against me, but she had passed away by then. Still, each time I find myself in such a struggling place, I think of her, and I think of the very important lessons she taught me before I had any understanding of the philosophical ideas that would eventually find me.

The only person that can stop me from holding my head high is myself. There is no failure in being unable to do something when zero choice is given. I will make mistakes, and I am still loved. Respect is earned by action, not station. And I should always find joy and help others smile because that is the real fountain of youth.

I don't always succeed, but I think of the love both she and my grandfather radiated, and I know I eventually will. Most importantly, I will love myself doing so, because that is a superpower that only I can control.

———

After a conversation with a friend earlier today, I decided to reread Epictetus' Discourses because it's been a very long time, and I wondered how differently I might view it now that I've added many more years to my name. I have just finished reading chapter two.

It had not dawned on me just how stoic my grandmother was. Society tends to associate it with less warmth, I think. However, when I contemplate the persons I have known who I would say practice the idea of it the most, whether intentionally or no. They are always filled with warmth, compassion, and an inner light that cannot be snuffed out.

These are the memories that stood out in my mind as I was reading the chapters. What a most blessed gift. I tear up thinking about how generous she was with her love. I will never be as hardworking as she was. Not by a longshot. I think of all she did day in and day out, and I am amazed. But maybe, just maybe, I can be as compassionate, understanding, and loving. I would like that. I would like that a lot. Look at her still inspiring goals decades after she last drew breath in that form...

It's still raining outside. It has been a most beautiful day.

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