A Phone Call, Too Far Away (While My Mom Gave Birth)

It was early evening. I was very little, shorter than the small desk tucked in the corner of the kitchen that was home the rotary phone. I remember looking up at it as my grandmother spoke on the phone.

I wanted my mother. More like...needed her.

My grandmother had told me she couldn't be there right now. I recall thinking she was sick, or busy, and I understood that in an itellectual way...but I wanted her, in a very primal way. I felt cut off, and I wanted my mother. She was warmth, and safety, and snuggles, and home. As much as I liked my grandmother, it just wasn't the same.

I remember speaking to her on the phone. I think. Or maybe my grandmother spoke to my father. Either way, I knew that the phone was a connection to my mother, and it made me want her more.

I had noticed my mother getting larger, but it made her comfortable. A lot like curling up and laying on a giant, squishy stuffed toy. I liked it.

So now she was busy, unavailable, and I would have to wait. And I didn't like it at all.

"Say When"

My grandfather loved a good joke. He had wonderful sense of humor, and enjoyed playing around with us kids.

One of his favorite tricks to play?

I would ask for a glass of juice. Or milk in my cereal. I loved the cereal they had...it was some kind of oat or bran in the shape of little 'O's, but I would call it dog food because that's what it looked like to me. So he would pour the milk, and instruct me to "say when" it was full enough.

There'd be that mischievous twinkle in his eye, and his lip would try to twist up despite his attempts to keep a straight face.

"That's enough!"

The milk would get dangerously close to the top of the bowl.

"That's plenty!"

The milk would spill out of the bowl on the kitchen table.

"Stooooop!!"

And still he'd pour. Why? I hadn't said "when."

One Summer, A Hospital Visit

My mother had gone over seas for eight weeks--not, in fact, two months, as I had corrected my grandmother when she spoke to the checkout lady at the grocery store. To keep my brother and I busy, and less of a hassle for my grandmother, a number of activities had been planned for the entire time.

Except my grandfather had a stroke.

He was in the hospital for months, and every afternoon, my grandmother would call us in from playing outside, and we would get cleaned up to go see him.

I adored seeing my grandfather, but hated going to the hospital. It smelled of obscure chemicals and unwashed people. The creepy quiet was only intermittently interrupted by the squeak of rubbery nursing shoes or the beep of machinery. And everything was too bright.

One particular afternoon, I whined to my grandmother that I didn't want to go. Of course I did, I wanted to see my grandfather, but going to the hospital knotted up my stomach and made me anxious in ways I didn't understand.

My grandmother was an easygoing woman, but this drew a sharp response from her. We were going. My grandfather was sick and lonely. How would I like it if I were all alone all day in the hospital? Wouldn't I want someone to come see me?

So I went and got changed. I felt guilty for having complained about it, when I knew deep down that he enjoyed having us visit. I didn't yet understand that it was my own fear of seeing him in that state that caused my anxiety.