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| Itsy and Penguin in San Francisco |
No one in the world has an Itsy. No one but me, my brother, and my cousins. “Itsy?” People often ask and I’ve told this story so many times.
One of the perks of being the oldest grandson is being the first to name the grandmother. For the first three or so years of my life, we called her Gran. I have no memory of that. Believe it or not, I do recall the moment I named her.
Gran lived in the small town of Borger in the Texas Panhandle. Mom lived in Houston—a single mother of me. We had flown up for a visit while Mom’s grandmother was visiting. It would be the first time to meet my great-grandmother outside of infancy. Great Gran, as she was known, was a small, frail woman with gray hair. Gran had black hair above a younger, solid frame.
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| Penguin's Mother, Big Gran, Penguin, Itsy Bitsy Gran |
I’ll never forget standing in the living room and seeing Great Gran next to Gran, both with huge, adoring smiles beaming right at me from across the room. Mother leaned down to explain to me, “I’m your mommy, Gran is my mommy, and Great Gran is Gran’s mommy.” I looked them over, and even though my grandmother was a larger person than her mommy, I knew the smaller one was in charge. I looked at my mother and said, “No. That’s Big Gran, and that’s Itsy-bitsy Gran.” Cue laughter.
And so they were dubbed. For quite a few years I called her Itsy-bitsy, but after a while the bitsy was dropped and we just called her Itsy. When my Aunt Donna had grand kids, she was dubbed Bitsy, so the legend continues.
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| Borger City Hall |
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| Main Street Borger |
Itsy was getting up there in age, and the cost of living in the San Francisco area was leaving me to wonder if I was going to live paycheck to paycheck in a tiny rented apartment all my life, or move back to Houston, where things were more affordable. I could spend more time with Itsy while she was still with us.
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| Itsy wanted pancakes for lunch |
I cherished my time with Itsy, buying a house just a mile south of hers. We got together monthly for lunch, just she and I. She had me over for dinner, or we’d have meals and fun times at the homes of her two daughters, my aunts Patty and Donna, who also lived nearby.
When her eyesight began to fade, and we were taking her to more and more doctor appointments, I began to notice her decline. I especially became aware of this when my mommy passed from cancer. “Oh...what are we going to do without our sweet Linda?” she’d ask. The first time she said it, my heart sank and my eyes wet.
After I got covid and began losing weight, she would ask me to show her. “Move over into the light. I can’t really see you, but I can see your shadow.” Then she would ooh, and aah over how much thinner that shadowed version of myself was.
Itsy’s eyesight continued to decline and her frame was shrinking. She spoke of upcoming doctor visits worried about the state she was in. She returned from doctor visits shocked at the good report. She was healthy for a woman in her nineties. Her brain was a steel trap. Her eyes were crap. She had been saying it for years, but more often after her eldest daughter passed, “I don’t know why I’m still here.” She was ready to go. But she was healthy enough that I knew we’d be celebrating her one hundredth birthday.
One day, Itsy was in her guest bathroom tidying up. She fell, using the shower curtain to brace her fall. When she landed between the tub and the toilet, she was unable to move and wouldn’t be found until the following morning. She spent the first few days in the hospital near my house. The same one that for years brought memories of when I went there for my first kidney stone, and more recently, where I lived for eight days with covid.
It was strange being in her home without her there. Her phone had recently gone dead, and one of my roles as caretaker, was to be responsible for her phone. A new one had arrived and I needed information from her file to set it up. I had a strange feeling; something told me Itsy would never see her home again. What an odd thing to foresee. Surely I was wrong.
After a few days in hospital, Itsy was transferred to a rehabilitation center a little further away. The distance didn’t stop me from a daily visit. While she was under good care in the center, they didn’t care for her like family. She couldn’t see well enough to eat on her own, and often having to wait to be fed when someone got around to feeding her.
I went once for lunch, but Itsy asked if I could come for dinner. Often, I entered her room to find her fast asleep, her mouth agog and an oxygen generator next to her bed demanding attention with it’s loud buzz. There were times it was turned off. I would later learn that it was my Aunt Donna who was turning it off. After all, they took her off oxygen in the hospital, and when sleeping, her mouth fell open, mostly negating its usefulness.
When entering Itsy’s room at the recovery center, I never knew what to expect. A few times she asked who was there, so I began by saying, “Hello Itsy. It’s me, your favorite eldest grandson.” I loved making her chuckle and her smile.
If not sleeping, I might find her in bed staring blindly into space. If she was sleeping, I wouldn’t wake her. It was therapeutic to sit in the dark corner of her room and watch over her. Our roles had switched— until college, she cared for me each summer. Now I got to return the favor. If she didn’t wake before dinner time, I would do so. The the jolt of waking to the loud knock, the sudden appearance of lights, and an orderly bursting in with her tray of food startled her.
On Sunday, the window shade was pulled down and I asked if she would like me to raise it to let in some natural light. It didn’t matter to her, since she couldn’t see anyway. She tended to martyr herself. I knew damned well that the light was better than the dark. At least she could better see the shadow of me. Being empowered to do as I pleased, up went the shade one-third of the way.
We always discussed the weather. It was pretty outside, so I described the scene to her. I raised the bed to get her ready for dinner and took the flip phone from the table and asked if she had made any calls. She had not, “I can barely see any names,” she told me. Getting her new phone mirrored to her old one was quite a chore. I finally learned that I could make adjustments to her list from my puter at home, but I couldn’t find out if it worked until the following day. On Saturday I failed to hit save. On Sunday the list needed to be tweaked again. Each evening I left Itsy with homework. Surely it would be correct on Monday.
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| Itsy and Poppy with their 4 kids |
Dinner arrived at nearly the same time each evening. I removed the lid to describe the meal to her. She said the food wasn’t very good. The eggs were awful and difficult to swallow. She was convinced they were made from powder. The bread wasn’t good, either. One day, I tasted her uneaten cornbread muffin. She wasn’t wrong.
Itsy couldn’t see the food on her plate and had trouble holding a fork. So many of her muscles had atrophied. Besides providing pleasant company, I was happy to help as much as I could. The staff at the facility were nice, but nothing beats family for assistance. Sunday was the seventh day at the rehabilitation center following four nights in the hospital near my house.
Between bites, we’d continue to chat. It rained at some point every day that week. She groaned as if she had to go out in it. I enjoyed serving her dinner. As her health declined, our lunches together became scarce. She rarely left the house. In the end, I talked her into allowing me to bring lunch to her house instead of going out. Her favorite was Whataburger: the small one, no cheese or mustard, but with onions. We shared a side of fries.
It really was hard not to make airplane sounds when feeding her. And I caught myself opening my mouth as she did. Having no kids of my own, thus lacking in experience, I was nervous the first time I fed her. How big of a bite should I be giving her? What proportion of main entree to vegetables? How long between bites? I never had cause to watch her eating routine. People have individual habits that can be hard and fast and my grandmother was as stubborn as me.
I found the best solution was to ask. After each bite, “OK, more of the chicken and dumplings or a bite of peas and carrots?” I paid attention to the amount of food I placed on the fork and dabbed her mouth as she chewed, if I got some on her lips. Each bite took a little planning: the size, the height, varying from one item to the next, being mindful of her teeth. Before I got the next bite ready, she often opened her mouth like a baby chick. We laughed when I told her to slow down. “I’m still getting the next bite ready.”
Dessert was her favorite. Most of the time it was a cup of canned fruit. Friday was a special day; they topped it with a dollop of whipped cream. She ate half the meal, but all of the dessert. When done, I’d move the tray to the dresser on the other side of the room, and rearranged her rolling table the way she liked it. I told her where everything was: “Your water is here, next to that is your flip phone,” (which was more of a security blanket for her) “next to that is your sippy-cup with OJ, and here is the box of tissues.” She would ‘aw’ like I had baked her a cake—she was adorable.
Dinner was done, so I adjusted the bed down, tucked the covers under her chin, and dimmed the lights. The sun was still out and filled the room nicely. We continued to visit, with periods of silence. These moments were never uncomfortable.
That day was the same as the day before, only Donna was out of town for a few days, so I stayed longer. When I arrived on Monday, I was happy to see Donna, her youngest child, but also disappointed. I would have come at lunch had I known, just so Itsy could have had a family member feed her two meals instead of one. Donna normally came at lunch; she stopped by on her way home.
I removed some pillows from the wheelchair that lived in the corner of the room and brought it over to sit next to her in front of the windows. “Itsy, your phone should now be exactly as you like it,” I announced proudly. She expressed excitement, and then the usual statement that she can’t see well enough to make any calls. Donna laughed.
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| Itsy and her man |
Itsy made some calls that day. She mistakenly called my cousin’s husband—someone she wouldn’t normally call. They wound up having a nice talk. Among the successful calls she made, one was to me.
Then Itsy boasted of her fifteen minutes “on the bike.” I looked to the floor at the exercise pedals. “That’s terrific, Isty. Fifteen minutes is longer than I biked today. You’ll be back home in no time.” I shared some good news about my job, which thrilled her.
She was full of excitement that day. Calls, exercise, and she stood for the first time since falling, getting on the scale. She said she gained a pound and forty ounces. Donna and I smiled. She meant four ounces, not forty. Donna corrected her mother, who was disappointed that it wasn’t forty. Itsy was tiny, so weight gain was good news. It was the happiest I’d seen her in some time.
Dinner arrived, and before the tray was set down I was able to announce that night’s meal. Each evening, an attendant came around with the menu for the following day. It was funny how she always slept through it. All those lunches together and taking her grocery shopping paid off; I knew what she liked and disliked. Sunday, I chose a sloppy Joe with vegetables. For breakfast Itsy would enjoy oatmeal, bacon and toast.
That night her meal was served in a Styrofoam clam-shell take-home container as opposed to the usual plate. Donna opened it and found the sloppy Joe on a perfectly round bun. To the side were some fries and corn. She asked about dessert, giving little attention to the entree. Applesauce pleased her only slightly.
Donna laid things out, moving the bed table in front of Itsy. Donna cut the sandwich in half and handed it to her. She ate half of that and then announced that it was time for dessert. Donna undid the plastic wrap and spoon fed her applesauce. She fed faster than me.
Itsy ate two thirds of dessert and was finished. I moved the clam shell back a bit and closed the lid. Itsy coughed a few times. Donna asked if she would like some water or orange juice to help wash things down and she asked for the orange juice. Her sippy-cup was nearly empty so Donna assisted me in filling her cup with the OJ I had ordered. Itsy downed a few gulps and started to cough more. She grimaced. I asked if the juice had gone down the wrong pipe. She waved us away, saying that she was fine. The coughing intensified causing her to lean forward in bed.
Thinking she might vomit, Donna grabbed the Styrofoam container and placed the lid portion under Itsy’s chin. “Here you go, Mom,” she said. “You can throw up if you need to. I have the container to catch anything. Just let it out.” I could tell my aunt had three children; she was so comforting and matter of fact.
Between coughs she said, “I’ll be fine...just...give me...a few minutes...” But the coughs were getting worse, now with gurgling in her lungs, much how children cough with that fluid sound in the windpipe. I watched her closely. My flight attendant training turned on. Might this be the first time I use the Heimlich maneuver? I began to plan out how to get behind her. She was so frail; I was afraid of hurting her.
She could still breathe and speak, assuring us that she was fine. Donna was beginning to look concerned. She put the container back on the table. I moved the table, pushing it near the corner of the room and tore off the lid, presenting it to Donna just case it was needed. She did cough up a little orange juice, which Donna wiped from her chin. I thought it was over, but she continued her state of duress. “I’ve never seen her do this,” I said to Donna. “I’ve seen it a few times, but never this bad,” She replied, her brow furrowed.
As she continued to cough, the deep gurgling got worse. This was not right. I left the room and walked quickly up the hall to the nurse station, “Hi, my grandmother down the hall just finished eating and she is now coughing. It sounds like she has a lot of fluid in her lungs. Could you assist us, please?”
Two men in scrubs followed me to the room. They immediately realized that Itsy was in trouble. One man left to get the supervisor, while the other went to Itsy’s right side. “We need to raise the bed but she’s seated too low,” he said as her lowered the bed flat. He directed me to the other side of her to help him scoot her body towards the top of the mattress. Carefully, I reached under her arm and dragged her up. He raised the bed so that she was seated upright.
Itsy leaned forward and the man lightly beat her back to assist the coughing. Donna looked upset—her hand over her mouth. I remained calm as she looked at me for support. It was concerning, but I thought Donna was overreacting. I realized that I was there for her as much as for Itsy.
As long as she could speak, I knew she was fine. “I’m not...choking. I will...be fine,” she stated between coughs. This was going on for about five minutes and was getting worse. I moved back as the other man returned with what felt like fifteen others in tow. Maybe it was five people; I’m not sure. The room was full of people dressed in scrubs. Even against the back wall, I felt in the way. I walked past Donna without a word. She followed me into the hall.
I was aware that my breathing was short and fast. Deep breaths, I thought. In through the nose...out through the mouth. I looked at Donna, who was visibly shaken. She lowered her hand from her mouth and studied me. I did my best to not appear scared. Until the room filled with orderlies, I wasn’t. I was in flight attendant mode: remain calm, project an image of authority, and carefully assess the situation. The training came naturally. But this was my Itsy. It was difficult to keep emotions at bay.
Several people left the room and we went back in. “We’re here, Mom,” Donna said. “We’re still right here.” I chimed in likewise, unsure that I wasn’t doing so to calm myself as much as her. The nurse ordered someone to fetch ‘the board.’ A man entered with a pulse oximeter, which he placed on her finger. After my bout with covid, I am quite familiar with these, and moved in for a better view. The safe range is around 95% and up, depending on the size and age of the patient. There were two numbers showing: forty-eight and seventy-one. I looked at Donna watching me, and shook my head in disbelief. I doubted her heart rate was forty-eight. I left the room.
“I saw you looking at the thing on her finger. What did it say?” “Well, I saw two numbers and neither were good,” I replied. She asked if Itsy was going to die. What? No. This was serious, but Itsy was breathing and talking. Itsy will be fine once she coughs it all up. She merely needs some assistance. Donna had her phone out and was trying to reach her husband.
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| Itsy and 4 adult kids |
Someone announced that the paramedics had been called. I was now pacing the hall and Donna alternated between watching me and looking inside the room. Her phone in her hand, she was unable to reach her husband or sister. From the hallway, we couldn’t see her, so we went back in.
The coughing subsided. I saw that Itsy was heaving, as if taking deep breaths. She looked like a fish out of water and I couldn’t hear if she was breathing or not. She was looking blankly into space the way she does. “Itsy. Can you breathe?” I asked. My heart was sinking. Something was off.
I rushed to her left side, asking again if she could breathe. ...As long as she can breathe she will be fine. I placed my hand on her shoulder and looked at her. Her coloring wasn’t normal. Was it blue? I’d never seen anyone turn blue. She appeared flush and devoid of color. I asked again. She was not breathing, but straining to.
As I looked into her eyes, I flashed back to being with my mother at her time of death from cancer fifteen months prior. Itsy’s were the same as Mom’s the moment she passed: blank. Dark. Cold.
Itsy’s head fell against my arm. I knew. She was gone.
I remember nothing else of that moment. Somehow, in all the confusion, and with all the people, it was just my grandmother and me. It lasted only a few seconds. I have no memory of where Donna was or how many people were in the room. I do recall that I was the only person next to Itsy. Seeing her slump into me, several nurses rushed up and I moved away.
They prepared to administer CPR and I couldn’t watch. She was so frail. Giving her CPR would break her in half. Returning to the hallway, I noticed a nurse standing nearby who had been watching me. I could tell from his expression that he had seen her pass.
I walked to the exit windows at the end of the hall two rooms down. There could have been a circus parade or a flying whale. The only thing to register in my mind was the vision of Itsy’s eyes. It was so similar to Mom’s death. My calm, professionalism drained as I fell back into the role of Itsy’s grandchild. With tears now streaking down my face, Donna approached and we embraced. I could tell that she knew.
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| Happy Birthday |
From inside the room I could hear CPR being counted. Down the hall at the nurse station, the paramedics arrived with a gurney full of equipment. Donna shouted, “She’s in here...151!” They seemed to be moving so slowly. Donna shouted for them to hurry.
A woman approached and inquired about a do not resuscitate. I remember seeing her DNR wristband days ago, but realized she hadn’t had it on the last few visits. The lady asked if we could show her the paperwork. Donna said, “It’s not like I carry the letter with me.” The nurse asked, “Do you want us to try to save her life? Or should we stand back?”
Donna and I looked at one anther. Our roles were switching; Donna began to show the calm I had a few minutes ago. “Listen, she has a DNR. That was her wish. Do not resuscitate. I don’t have a letter. It is on her wrist band.” She looked at me, unsure. The facility supervisor approached. “Don’t you have a letter on file?” Donna, asked. I added that I had seen her wrist band. I think it was on the side table but I wasn’t sure.
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| A beer with Poppy at his grave site |
While the DNR issue was working out, Donna looked perplexed. “I don’t know,” she said leaning in. “Do you think we should try to save her?” Donna’s brown eyes were so sad. I realized that this wasn’t just my grandmother, it was her mother, and I remember all to well how painful losing Mom was.
I said quietly, “Even if they save her, she won’t be the same. She’s been without oxygen for several minutes now. She won’t be the Itsy we know, and it might make things even worse, medically.” I glanced at the paramedic and parroted what Donna said a moment sooner, “We should honer her wishes...”
The look in Donna’s eyes changed. With understanding, sadness, and dignity she found within her the authority of the decision. The nurse supervisor approached and confirmed that she had just spoken to Itsy’s doctor, and there is a DNR on file. My aunt repeated, “We should honor her wishes.”
With that the paramedic disappeared behind the closed door to Itsy’s room. My tears flowed more freely. A man in a black fire fighter’s uniform entered. The CPR counts ceased. I returned to the windows down the hall and looked up to the sky. There were patches of blue between clouds that appeared dirty, as if ready to release rain. I wished to be up there, far from that scene. Donna approached and we embraced again, crying on each other’s shoulder.
The male nurse who had earlier helped me position my grandmother approached and stated that we could enter—the first to arrive and the last to exit. I hadn’t noticed anyone leave the room; last I knew, there were at least five people with Itsy. The room was now empty. The lights were lowered. In the corner was the table with Itsy’s half eaten meal still sitting there. It felt like a lifetime ago that we fed her applesauce. The comfy chair from the side of her bed was moved into the restroom. The wheel chair was still in front of the window—its shade down two-thirds. Itsy’s bed was lowered for CPR and was now flat. A white blanket covered her completely. She looked even smaller now, as if life gave her mass. She appeared to be wrapped up like a caterpillar. It was quiet. So much so, I thought I could hear our tears hit the floor.
I went blank. I was alone in the world. What Donna said or did is a mystery to me. She may have placed a hand on Itsy’s shoulder. And I’m fairly certain I heard her say, “I love you, Mom.”
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| At home |
Her phone rang. It was her sister. Patty, who had not answered when we tried to call many minutes ago. Patty started talking immediately, going into detail of some social drama, so Donna had to interrupt her. Donna said that Itsy had passed. There were no words from the other end. I flashed back to Mom’s death, where Aunt Patty was the first person to call me. I was unable to speak for what must have been a full minute. After catching her breath, Patty's words were full of sadness and drowned with tears.
I called my brother Jason in Austin. He went quickly from shock, to anger, and then sadness. His family had just walked into a restaurant for dinner. I could hear his son ask what was wrong. We hung up.
Donna said that she needed to get home and find her husband, Uncle Mark. She simply couldn’t stay there any longer, and I completely understood. I told her that I couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not so soon. Itsy’s soul—her energy—may have left, but this was still my grandmother, and I couldn’t leave her. “I’m going to stay here,” I said. “For a little while, at least. I’m not ready to leave her.” We hugged and she left the room.
To the right side of the bed, on the floor, was the board they used when starting CPR. I moved it to the far wall. Kneeling beside Itsy, I placed my hand on her shoulder. Her hair was visible. I lifted the blanket gave my grandmother one last kiss on her forehead. Her mouth was open, just as it was every time I had watched her sleeping. For a moment I thought that was the case. She hadn’t died. She was sleeping. She looked at peace; her eyes were closed. I returned the blanket over her head. With my hand still on her shoulder, I wept.
It’s not uncommon for a person to clean after a loved one dies. I was such a person. I rose and crossed the room so that I could raise the shade of the window. I did the same with the next window. I had not seen that shade up since my first visit seven days prior. Was it seven days? Wow. I had come here daily, but it didn’t seem like seven times.
In the center of the room was a large, red emergency supply cart with many drawers of varying sizes brought in at the beginning. I rolled it into the hallway. The room was filled with natural light. There were a few tissues on the floor. One had been in her hand since the coughing began. The other is what I used to wipe her mouth as she ate. I picked these up and tossed them in the trash can under the television.
The red flip phone was visible on the table. Looking over at Itsy under the blanket, I couldn’t help but laugh. “And I just got your phone fixed the way you wanted it,” I said to her small blanket-wrapped frame. “Seriously?” I knew she enjoyed my chuckling—even if heard from some other realm. I expected a response and got none but in my head. I knew the gist of her silent response.
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| Silly birthday antics |
Having arranged the room and lighting to my satisfaction I returned to my vigil at her side. I told her how wonderful it was that she was with her husband once more. He left us twenty-one years previous. He was the love of her life. He was the man I admired most. I could see them dancing. As a child, I loved to watch them cut a rug at country club parties and at weddings. I spoke to the empty room: Oh, Itsy, I can see you two dancing. I can see my own mother. And your mother too, Itsy. How nice to be together again. Mom, Itsy and Poppy, Big Gran, and even Aunt Betty (Big Gran’s sister) reunited.
My phone rang, startling me. It was Aunt Patty. She was in tears and asked me to give Itsy a final hug farewell from her. I promised. After hanging up, looking over to my tiny grandmother, I thought I saw her breathe. She was just napping. In a moment she will awaken and ask for her red flip phone. It is natural to see the steady rise and fall of someone under a blanket. My mind played cruel tricks.
A woman knocked and asked if she should take the dinner tray away. She had no idea what just happened in that room. “No, please come back later,” I said. She left, and I pushed the large comfy chair back to the corner of the room. I thought, yesterday a happy man sat in this chair. Today I’m grieving. Before sitting, I remembered Patty’s request. I draped my left arm across Itsy. “This is from Patty. It’s also for your son, Mike. And for all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will miss our Itsy so much.” I cried. The hug lasted several minutes. There were a lot of family to consider so it had to be a big hug.
In that chair, time paused as I alternated looking out the window, to Itsy, and the ceiling. Seeing the clock on the wall enabled me to assess that she passed away around a quarter to six. It was now nearly seven. My phone rang several times. Uncle Mark checked in on me. My brother called for more details of what happened. Then Donna called to invite me to Itsy’s house, where she, Patty, my cousin, Garrett, and Uncle Mark were gathered.
I was now ready to leave her room that had been filled with love, frustration, confusion, horror, and grief. There were two bags in the closet of Itsy’s. I placed her personal affects in these bags: her hair brush, some Pjs, undergarments, tiny shoes that fit her delicate feet. I checked her night stand and in the bathroom. I checked the rolling table, that still held Itsy’s last meal. The applesauce sat quietly. I chuckled and looked over to speak to Itsy. “You know, Mom’s final bite of food was a grape. One solitary grape. Yours was applesauce. Now I’ll think of you when I see it, just like green grapes remind me of Mom.”
Before leaving, I sat in the big chair and spoke to Itsy. I couldn’t simply leave the room without saying anything. Suddenly I was bawling once more. When I managed to speak, I said, “All I wanted to do was feed you dinner. That’s all I wanted to do. I didn’t want this...but I know it was your time. I know, Itsy. I have heard you wonder out loud why you were still here for at least a year. I’m happy you are now at peace. I love you, Itsy Bitsy.” If I walked briskly to the front exit, maybe no one would notice my swollen red eyes.
At Itsy’s house, everything was surreal. I felt that her fall meant that she would never see this house again. I had mentioned it to friends. How sad it was that it came true. It was odd being there when she was recovering. It was more so now that she was gone. Uncle Mark presumed that she aspirated, not an uncommon way for someone in Itsy’s condition to pass.
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| Pizza with Itsy |
I entered through the garage and shouted hello. Donna and her son Garrett sat at the kitchen table. Patty was pacing the entry foyer speaking to someone on her phone. I made a beeline to the fridge. Donna saw me looking up and down for something. Itsy’s fridge was always mostly empty; she ate so little. Anything being sought should be easy to find. Donna asked what I was searching for. “Wine,” I said. “Last week there were two small boxes of wine. They seem to have disappeared.”
Closing the refrigerator door, I went directly to the wine table where Itsy always had a few bottles. Before I reached the table, Donna suggested I open a bottle. I was way ahead of her, and poured a glass for each person present.
When Patty’s call ended she joined us at the table. We toasted to Itsy and Poppy—together again. Stories were told by all of us. So many grand memories. Donna thought it was strange how she and I were there Thursday before her fall. “The two of us were the last to see Itsy before she fell. The two of us were there when she died.” Donna told me that when I left the room for help, Itsy admitted that she was in trouble. I pointed out that she passed with her youngest child and oldest grandchild.
There were numerous strange things that day, like calls she made to people she normally wouldn't call. Since I saw her regularly, her daily calls stopped, yet she called me that morning. She stood for the first time, peddled, got her hair washed. It was almost as if she knew. It gave me goosebumps.
It was just after 11PM when we left. I was a zombie the next day. Between calls from friends offering their condolences, I mulled over memories. Things didn’t feel right without her daily call, usually around 10AM. The world was strange without Itsy—a feeling identical to what I felt the morning after Mom passed.
Many thoughts came and went. I was with Itsy in Borger when I learned the reason for snow is so little boys can play in it, and build snowmen with their grandfather. She taught me the best thing with vanilla ice cream is a fresh, sliced peach, that yogurt is not a dessert, and there was nothing better than one of her famous grilled cheese sandwiches topped with Gouldin’s mustard. My fridge is never without it, but my grilled cheese is never as good. I learned how to iron from watching my grandmother, how to play cards, and use the phrase, “waste not, want not.” It went particularly well at the end of a meal. So many memories of her will last forever.
When bidding farewell, Itsy was known for saying “Toodle-oo,” or sometimes “toodles.” On the rare occasion she didn’t, I felt robbed. Life won’t be the same without my grandmother’s parting word. I’ve heard others us the term, but no one can ever use that sentiment better, and it won’t feel the same when anyone else says it. But I want to keep her tradition going by adopting it for myself; in honor of my sweet grandmother.
I’ll see you on the other side, Itsy. Toodle-oo.
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| Cheers to Itsy from Penguin's mom |
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