It's been a while since I posted anything to my LiveJournal. Given the way I left off, I suppose I should tell how it ended. Very well. On October third, two thousand and two, after a long fight against her own failing body, my great-grandmother, Marjorie Shaw, died. She went in the company of her family, and was mourned by those who had known her. I wrote a memorial to her, which I posted on the MZDM boards. I shall post it here.
My great-grandmother Marjorie Shaw died last Thursday. She was ninety-three years old. I've known her for nearly all my life. When my family was stationed in Germany, she used to visit us, and help take care of my brother and I. That was always the role she chose; taking care of others. We called her Honey. She raised both my grandmother and my mother. She has travelled to see all new births in the family, and our extended family. Even those children who didn't have a direct blood link to her she loved. All the children in our family were "her children." She loved us all deeply, and we loved her. She was such a strong person, and nothing could break her, until the very end.
She was the middle child of three, born in 1908, with the older sister being Annie Ruth, and the younger being Annie Bessie. When she was six, her father, who ran a dray line, was kicked by one of his horses. The kick ruptured his intestines, and he died. Their mother started working as the switchboard operator in the town they lived in. She and her daughters lived in the building, and she worked hard to raise them herself, as a widow. However, in 1918, when Honey was ten, there was a great flu epidemic. That year, the flu claimed more people than the Great War which had so recently ended. Her mother was one of those people. Honey herself contracted the disease, which damaged her eyes, as well as her lungs.
Their mother had made plans for them to stay with people in the town, but they had relatives in California who offered to take them in. Legally, they had greater claim to the children, and so they were shipped off to the relatives. Unfortunately, there was a reason that their mother had not chosen them in the first place. They were not particularly nice people, and used the girls as unpaid labor. They kept Honey from going to school, saying that her health was too delicate, and that it would be best if she just stayed home and took care of the rest of them.
Annie Ruth managed to escape first. I don't know the details of that escape, but it had to have taken iron will to accomplish. She got herself established in LA, and Honey was allowed to visit her at times. During this time, they concocted a plan. Each time Honey went to visit, she would smuggle a piece of clothing. One day she'd wear two shirts, the next an extra pair of socks. Eventually, when she was sixteen, she was ready to just walk away, and live with Annie Ruth in LA. And after a time, Annie Bessie also joined them.
Because she had not been allowed to go to school, she had no high school diploma, so they spilled ink on Annie Bessie's, and passed it off as hers. She got quite far when they found out, and they decided to let her stay, on the condition that she get straight A's. And that's how she became a nurse. Annie Ruth and Annie Bessie also went through college, and became teachers. The fact that they were able to put themselves through college in that day and age was extraordinary, and I can only marvel at the iron will that possessed them.
Eventually, she married. Her husband was a widower, whose wife had died of tuberculosis, and had a daughter named Norma. Honey took care of her as if she were her own daughter, and eventually bore my grandmother, Jackie. When Jackie was still young, Honey got sick again, this time losing one eye. She was never able to work again. Jackie eventually grew up, got married, and had my mother, Sharon. When Jackie had to work to support herself and Sharon, it was Honey who came in and watched over Sharon, and made sure she learned right and wrong.
She was the steel core of our family. She was the heartwood of our family tree. It's almost impossible to believe that she's really gone. She was so much a part of my life; of all our lives, that it hardly seems real.
But in the past several years, she began going downhill. By the time she turned ninety, she was no longer able to live on her own, and we had to put her into a board and care home. Recently, we had to put her on hospice, as her health took a turn for the worse. She kept her wits almost until the end, and only began to lose her faculties this last year.
A few weeks ago, she had an accident at the home she was living in. She fell down, and broke her hip and her wrist. She was rushed to Desert Valley Hospital, where she underwent surgery on both. I visited her the day the surgery was scheduled, and, because my grandmother had to leave to teach a class, I stayed with her in the pre-op room while we waited for her to be taken into surgery.
During this time, she was incredibly disoriented, both by the pain and the drugs, as well as the fact that her body and mind were now failing her. The fact that she couldn't see aggravated this fact, as she couldn't even use visual clues to try and make sense of what was going on around her. She said a great many things during that time, most of which made little sense. However, there were two things which stuck with me.
At times, she thought we were outside, and kept asking me to take her inside, where it was warm, because it was too cold out. At other times, she asked me to take her home. She wanted to go home.
And that's where she's gone. She's gone home. She's gone in out of the cold. But we're still out here, feeling the cold even more bitterly for her absence. By loving and being loved, she forged strong bonds between us and her, and now we feel those bonds broken, and it hurts. Today was going to be her birthday. She would have been ninety-four. Today, it finally hit me that I'll never see her again. I'll never hear her voice. I'll never hug her again, and I'll never be able to talk to her about the history of my family. There are so many things I still wanted to talk to her about, and I never will. Part of me is happy that she's finally gone home. She was ready to go, and had been ready for the past two years. But part of me can't help but feel angry and hurt that she's left us. I feel abandoned. I miss her so much, and I can't even let myself cry for her. I've got to be strong for my mother and grandmother, who miss her even more than I do.
Tomorrow is her funeral. Tomorrow I'm going to say goodbye to her. And then she'll really be gone out of my life. But I won't forget her. I will never forget her.
The next day was the memorial service, which was arranged by her two grandchildren. Pastor Don Roberts, Norma's son, gave the eulogy, while Sharon, my mother, did the music. Partway through, I gave an abridged version of what I just posted. Afterward, we came together and spoke of the wonderful things she'd done during her life. And so she passed as she lived, loved and respected, and never to be forgotten.
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