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by mg at 10:54 PM on February 04, 2002

If you remember, I came home from my Christmas vacation because my grandmother was in the hospital. Since then, it’s been up and down. Something new would go wrong, but then she’d start doing better. Except for the tubes and wires, she’d be right back to her same ornery self.

But last week she suffered a massive stroke and never regained consciousness. She had been in the hospital for two months, and had often expressed her desire not to be kept alive by machinery. Her children (my mom, aunt and uncle) decided to disconnect all life support on Tuesday. At the same time I was sitting at work, unaware of what was going on, but having the overwhelming urge to break down and cry.

My grandmother, stubborn as ever, stayed alive for another four days. It gave the rest of the family a chance to get back to New York, to visit her in the hospital and say their goodbyes. She finally passed away Saturday morning.

I don’t really know what to say or do now. Is it appropriate to be writing this? I may do this for attention, but it’s also about sharing my life with all of you, my dearest friends and strangers. More than anything, though, this is about catharsis, about filtering out all the thoughts and emotions bouncing around inside me. In the year and a half I’ve been doing this, I can say there hasn’t been anything I’ve needed to express as much, so please bear with me.

As much as I love her, I’ll admit my grandmother was a very vain woman. For one, she didn’t like being called grandma. She may have been more than 70 years old, but she wasn’t a grandmother, she was Nana. More than that, she never left the house without quaffed hair, makeup, perfume, and jewelry. She may not have always worn a hat and white gloves, but she was a classic lady. Even if it was just going over to family’s house for dinner, she was always exquisitely put together.

I can remember sitting on the bed and watching in the mirror as she applied her makeup, and selected the proper jewelry for the occasion. But I’m sensitive to smells, so when she broke out the can of hairspray, I couldn’t have bolted from the room any faster.

For longer than I’ve been alive, she has dyed her hair bright bright red. And for just as long, she’s had her hair permed. Though I’d never have told her, I always thought of her hair as a great big red afro. Just recently, she bought a wig with brown, wavy hair. It was a shock the first time she wore it out, but she still looked great.

I was the first-born child in my generation. I got spoiled recklessly, by my grandmother more than anyone. I’ve seen this picture so many times that, while it’s impossible I remember my first Christmas, I do. If you can’t tell by my less than amused face, all those presents are for me.

My grandmother, in her bedroom, had an altar with candles, an incense burner, and all that Catholic jazz. Hung on the wall above the altar were several prayer cards and a crucifix. Above Jesus was a picture of, guess who? If you said me, Michael, you’d have been right.

My nearest cousin didn’t come around for another four years. I was always able to get away with things (not that I’d ever try to get away with anything) that, if one my other cousins had done it, would have had Nana screaming bloody murder. I was always the favorite (or maybe she just made me feel that way).

When I was younger, my mother was sick a lot. I spent a lot of time staying with my grandmother. I’d get home from school in the afternoons and sit with Nana to watch Magnum P.I. reruns on channel 9. She thought Tom Selleck was hot. When Hart to Hart came on, it’d be time to do my homework (which was okay, since I hated Hart to Hart). She also turned me on to Xena: Warrior Princess, which, say what you will, is a great show, on so many levels.

My grandparents split up before I was born. As long as I can remember, my grandmother had a boyfriend (until he died a few years ago). My grandmother and Uncle Pete were together for 30 years. They’d see each other almost every night of the week, whether going out to a movie, dinner, or just for a drive.

Sometimes, they’d go to the movies. I never went with them. There is a movie theater called the “Polk.” It is venerable old Triple XXX theatre just a few blocks from my grandmother’s house, and As strange as it may have been I always used to think that’s where they went. I was sure glad when I got old enough to realize how silly that was, but every time I walk past the Polk, I still smile to myself at the thought of Nana and Pete sitting there watching “Six Degrees of Penetration.”

I can remember sitting in the back of Uncle Pete’s car, checking out the Christmas decorations throughout the ritziest neighborhoods in Queens. I also remember being 5 or 6 years old, driving into “The City” (as they’d refer to Manhattan), and cruising the streets. That sense of awe and wonder looking at this beautiful city from the back seat of his car has always stuck with me. I can’t see the New York skyline without remembering my Grandmother and Pete.

I could go on and on. I wont. There is no appropriate thing to say, so all I can say is, I love you Nana.

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I disabled comments. I don’t want people to tell me how sorry they are. Instead, why don’t you go to your own site, and write about your grandmother, or father, or sister, or daughter; anyone you love, alive or passed. Better still, why don’t you call up that person, and let them know how much you love them.