The Ones Who Knew Me
I've had a certain reticence about writing essays or blogs pertaining to my personal history. My thinking changed a couple months ago, thanks to my therapist and input from my husband. At a recent writer's conference, I was urged to pen a series of essays for publication on various aspects of my lives: Hippie kid, Hollywood velvet rope party boy...and much, much more sordid stuff. Light bulb: My history belongs to ME, other cast members notwithstanding. I've given myself permission but haven't started them yet. Here's a trickle...
I've had 5 parents in my life: Great-Grandparents, Grandmother and my own biological mother and father. Of these, 3 understood me, "got" me, knew what made me tick...and appreciated who I was. I lost my "Daddy Zed" when I was 16. He was a kind, fun, gentle man, my role model. He wanted to change my middle name to Zed and my last name to his. I entertained the idea of honoring his wishes well into my adulthood. He planted the seed for my love of performing music, specifically singing as well as my stint as a band geek. He'd been completely lucid the last time I'd seen him. He died the fall of 1985, a lifetime ago. Dad's way of breaking the news to me was a curt "Zed's dead." Period. In the weeks following, I lost my mind. My coping mechanism was guzzling hard liquor in secret. My daddy was gone.
Grandmother Maude started fading fast after he died. In photos, you can tell if they were taken before or after my Great-Grandfather's death. She'd always been my rock, my champion. She instilled hopes, dreams and plans. After I was taken from their home, we did our best to cram as much as we could into short visits each summer. She wrote sweet letters and sent packages filled with thoughtful gifts, for no particular reason. She also did her best to prepare me for the inevitable; they were 72 years older than me. When Daddy Zed died, she retreated to a place where none of us could reach her, dying a little every day. My 4'11" dynamo slowly faded away until one day she no longer recognized me, and then fell silent a short time later. The day I could no longer look into her eyes and connect was a death itself. I sought relief in a bottle of bourbon and little bags filled with the Devil. The woman who survived the dust bowl as postmaster, nurse, grocer and landlord of a desolate little town in West Texas died at the age of 98, curled up in a fetal position, emaciated, fed by a tube in her stomach. And people wonder why I stopped believing in God. I was 26. I wasn't there at the end and I've been seeking absolution ever since.
Grandmother Nelouise took me in 3 different times in my life, also functioning as "mother." I moved back in with her in my early 20's to help her with Grandmother Maude, who'd become an invalid. She was retired but active. Of all my family members, she's the one who understood me the best. We shared a sarcastic, caustic sense of humor and silliness few understood. I didn't completely "get" her until I was an adult and vice versa. I know her deep, dark secrets and she knows (knew) mine. A few months ago, I tried and failed to make that connection with her. It was close, but...no. I knew the day would come. Today, another hospital stay. I'm a pro at hospitals, Great-Grandmother Maude broke me in. Looking at her today was like looking at Grandmother Maude about 4 years before she died. I guess we all have our turn deteriorating, suffering and then dying.
'Ol Nelouise (don't you love the names in my family?) is the last one. The last 100% lucid connection I made with her was a year ago. I've long given up trying to educate or make a case for who I am to anyone else. That's something none of us can force on anyone. The dirty secret of longevity is that we get to watch everyone we love grow old and die. I know...the torch must be passed. I understand this but don't always accept it.
I've had 5 parents in my life: Great-Grandparents, Grandmother and my own biological mother and father. Of these, 3 understood me, "got" me, knew what made me tick...and appreciated who I was. I lost my "Daddy Zed" when I was 16. He was a kind, fun, gentle man, my role model. He wanted to change my middle name to Zed and my last name to his. I entertained the idea of honoring his wishes well into my adulthood. He planted the seed for my love of performing music, specifically singing as well as my stint as a band geek. He'd been completely lucid the last time I'd seen him. He died the fall of 1985, a lifetime ago. Dad's way of breaking the news to me was a curt "Zed's dead." Period. In the weeks following, I lost my mind. My coping mechanism was guzzling hard liquor in secret. My daddy was gone.
Grandmother Maude started fading fast after he died. In photos, you can tell if they were taken before or after my Great-Grandfather's death. She'd always been my rock, my champion. She instilled hopes, dreams and plans. After I was taken from their home, we did our best to cram as much as we could into short visits each summer. She wrote sweet letters and sent packages filled with thoughtful gifts, for no particular reason. She also did her best to prepare me for the inevitable; they were 72 years older than me. When Daddy Zed died, she retreated to a place where none of us could reach her, dying a little every day. My 4'11" dynamo slowly faded away until one day she no longer recognized me, and then fell silent a short time later. The day I could no longer look into her eyes and connect was a death itself. I sought relief in a bottle of bourbon and little bags filled with the Devil. The woman who survived the dust bowl as postmaster, nurse, grocer and landlord of a desolate little town in West Texas died at the age of 98, curled up in a fetal position, emaciated, fed by a tube in her stomach. And people wonder why I stopped believing in God. I was 26. I wasn't there at the end and I've been seeking absolution ever since.
Grandmother Nelouise took me in 3 different times in my life, also functioning as "mother." I moved back in with her in my early 20's to help her with Grandmother Maude, who'd become an invalid. She was retired but active. Of all my family members, she's the one who understood me the best. We shared a sarcastic, caustic sense of humor and silliness few understood. I didn't completely "get" her until I was an adult and vice versa. I know her deep, dark secrets and she knows (knew) mine. A few months ago, I tried and failed to make that connection with her. It was close, but...no. I knew the day would come. Today, another hospital stay. I'm a pro at hospitals, Great-Grandmother Maude broke me in. Looking at her today was like looking at Grandmother Maude about 4 years before she died. I guess we all have our turn deteriorating, suffering and then dying.
'Ol Nelouise (don't you love the names in my family?) is the last one. The last 100% lucid connection I made with her was a year ago. I've long given up trying to educate or make a case for who I am to anyone else. That's something none of us can force on anyone. The dirty secret of longevity is that we get to watch everyone we love grow old and die. I know...the torch must be passed. I understand this but don't always accept it.
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