Saying goodbye, why is it sad?

This has probably been one of the hardest weeks of my life. During a layover in Oakland on the way home from a short vacation with my dad, stepmom, and sister in Lake Tahoe last Sunday, I called my mom back home in Texas. She sounded distressed, which set off alarm bells in my head. As it turns out, she informed me that my grandmother -- my Nana -- had gone so far down hill over the weekend that she wasn't expected to even make it through the night.

One of the biggest regrets in my 32 years is that I don't recall ever saying the words "I love you" the last time I spoke to my Poppy before he passed away when I was 16. My mother insists that I did, but I don't remember doing so. Even though I know he knew I loved him, it's something that has haunted me since.


To make matters worse, I've been reflecting on a vow I made to myself when I was a senior in high school. Back then, I was working in a nursing home a couple of afternoons a week, sitting with many of the older patients. I'd watch many of them sitting in wheelchairs by themselves in the day room and think to myself, "I'm never going to do that to my grandparents." When Nana began spending so much time in the hospital this year, I started realizing that I was doing just that -- leaving my own grandmother alone.


That's how I found myself on a 6:30 a.m. flight to Texas Monday morning, bleary-eyed from not sleeping the night before and praying that my Nana could hold on for just a few more hours so that I could have the chance to say goodbye.

Nana and I have always had a special bond. I don't know for sure if it has to do with the fact that she saved my life as a baby, but general consensus is that that was when it started. When I was 18 months old, I choked on a chicken bone. Emergency personnel were called and, from what I've been told, I caused quite a bit of drama. As I was turning the shade of Violet Brown, however, my Nana got a hold of me, stuck her hand in my mouth and managed to pull the bone from my throat before rocking me in a chair until I calmed down.


When I was little, I would impatiently wait by the window for the sound of a diesel engine as Nana and Poppy's Cadillac pulled into the driveway when they'd visit from Abilene. There was nothing quite like a Nana hug when she got out of the car. Soft, warm, and just full of love. I can still smell her perfume in those hugs.


In fact, if I could think of a way to describe my Nana, it would be to say that she radiated love. She did. No one radiates love the way my Nana does. No one will ever radiate love the same way she did. My mama does a pretty darn good job and I try, but Nana is, as they say, the gold standard.


When I was sick or upset, she'd rock me or just rub my back and softly sing to me -- usually "Jesus Loves Me" and "Jesus Loves the Little Children." Whenever my family and I would visit her house, she always made sure to have some of our favorite things around. Jello Pudding Pops, Big Red, Eskimo Pies... When I was in college and made the drive from Lubbock to Abilene, she had a fresh pan of Special K Bars waiting for me. Even up through last Christmas, she made sure to have her Kermit-green Tupperware canister full of spritz cookies just for me.


Every year on my birthday, I'd get a phone call that would begin with her sweet voice singing "Happy Birthday" to me. When I was broke at Texas Tech, she sent an occasional card with some cash in it and a note saying "Use this for whatever you need" in her gorgeous script handwriting. (My Nana's penmanship is unrivaled, in my opinion.)


My Nana gave me so much. She gave me my eyes and my dimples, but more importantly, she gave me love. She taught my mother how to be my mama. She made me want to be a better person and she showed me that love -- truly showing love, kindness, and forgiveness -- is usually the best way to handle things. In fact, I can't recall ever seeing my Nana angry or hearing her raise her voice.


In the end, I made it back to San Angelo before God called her home. When I visited her in the nursing home after landing, I couldn't help but melt down. Here was my Nana, barely able to talk. Somehow, though, we made a connection. Our eyes met and it was one of the eeriest, most amazing experiences I've had. I laid my head on her shoulder in a hug and cried and, despite her ailments, she rubbed my back and comforted me just as she did when I was a little girl. I will treasure that moment for the rest of my life.


Since it turned out that God wasn't quite ready for her on Monday night, I've been to visit her a couple of times this week. One afternoon, I sat there in the room with her, holding her hand. I sang to her like she used to sing to me. I told her how much I loved her. And even though I wasn't able to get more than an occasional hand squeeze as a response, she chuckled when I reminisced about how I always had to gone on "one more car ride" with her and Poppy before they returned home from their visits with us.


Tonight, though, something changed. She was placed on hospice today, so we're actually pretty sure this is the end. I went to the nursing home after dinner and was able to spend a few minutes alone with her. My beautiful, lively grandmother was hunched in a chair, eyes closed as was the norm of late. I went to her and rubbed her shoulder, telling her I was there to say goodnight and that I loved her. She opened her eyes a few times, grunted at me, and squeezed my hand, as if to tell me she loved me, too.


I have never been so heartbroken in my life. This hurts even worse than I imagined it could. That said, I wouldn't trade a minute of the last week for anything. On Sunday night, I thought I'd lost the opportunity to tell her that I love her. Thanks to God -- and to Nana for holding on for me -- I've been able to hold her hand and tell her many, many times just how much she means to me. Maybe Nana knew that I needed "one last ride" once again.


I'm going to miss those hugs and that laughter. I'll miss that sweetness and her calm voice. I'll miss her love and her optimism and her assertions that the Lord does provide. Selfishly, I mourn the fact that she's never going to be there when I eventually get married. She won't be able to meet any of her great grandchildren. But I know she's hurting and, in her words, is ready for that new body the Bible promises her once she gets to Heaven.


Even though I've said my goodbyes, there is nothing I'd rather do at this moment than go to the nursing home and curl up in bed with her, my head on her shoulder. One last time. And it still won't be enough.

I love you, Nana. Thank you for blessing me for nearly 33 years.

My Nephew is Cute (Part Three)

Different nephew this time. Still cute. This is the noob! I'm going to shut it and let his adorableness do the talking.


Can't wait to meet you, Austin! (Photo by Steph, by the way...)

Also a very happy birthday to my sister Stephanie! Can't believe my baby sis is 26.

My Nephew is Cute (Part Two)

So, there's been a running thing between my brother and my nephew for several years now. After we decided to call his Blackout Transformer "Blackie" (a shooey girl's name, apparently), Brayden decided to get "Uncle Mike" (my brother) a "Hello Kitty" card for his birthday this year. In "retaliation," my brother got Brayden something special for Christmas...



He then decided to re-gift to my Uncle Rick. The glee with which this kid does it is absolutely adorable. He can't even sit still.



I miss that kid.

My Nephew is Cute (Part One)

Okay, so both of my nephews are cute. (That's one of the first times I've been able to say "both my nephews" -- Austin was born on Friday.) I unfortunately have not yet gotten to meet Austin, which means that I haven't been able to take my own pictures or video, so that's why the star of this blog post is one Brayden.



There's two parts to this one, mainly because I didn't want to inundate you with YouTube embeds. Brayden loves spy stuff. Last year, my brother and sister-in-law (the new parents!) bought him a spy kit with all kinds of fun stuff. This year, I gave him some more stuff that I was able to acquire through work (love. it.)...and a football. Because he wanted a football and, by golly, if a West Texas boy wants to start playing football, bring it on. Plus, he wants to go to Texas Tech -- and that's awesome in Aunt Amanda's book.

ANYWAY. Spy Stuff. Because you guys don't care about the football. I took video in 2008 and 2009 of him playing with his new spy toys. I finally got around to editing something together. Not the best editing job ever, but he just makes me smile.



(The comma on that Bond font just irritates me to no end!)

Missing My Sissy...

And I reckon that as soon as she can see this blog -- in approximately five and a half weeks -- she will want to murder me in my sleep for calling her "sissy." She used to hate it when I did that in high school, though I honestly never did it to "get her goat." It was a genuine term of affection.


So my darling sister Katy is now in basic training for the United States Air Force at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio. Now, I haven't lived within 1,000 miles of my sister since I left for Los Angeles six years ago, but somehow I really, really miss her. We had gotten into a habit of talking on the phone during my work commute most mornings, so that first Tuesday after she left was very difficult.

When she first told me that she was planning on joining a year or so back (the entire process took a long time), my immediate reaction was to tear up and tell her "NO." In my mind, I saw my sister getting shipped overseas to assist in the wars, thus putting her life at risk. Selfishly, I found myself hoping that they would deny her entry based on her history of migraine headaches or Osgood-Schlatter's Disease. It's something I'm not necessarily proud of and I eventually got over it. Katy had been down for a little bit, feeling like she was a failure and a financial burden, so I worried that this was a knee-jerk reaction and something she was doing because she felt it was her only way out. She proved me wrong, though. Over time, I realized that this was something she honestly wanted to do, something she was actually excited about. At that point, I couldn't help but be excited for her.

I was lucky to be home in Texas the week before she left for basic training. She made me administrator on the Facebook group that would provide people updates on what she was doing and how to get in touch with her. I was going to be the one call she got to make upon arrival in San Antonio. I kept my phone near me all day long. The one exception was a yoga class that started at 8:30 p.m. my time (which would have been 10:30 p.m. there). I figured that by that point, she had decided to call my mom instead. I always assumed military folk were "early to bed, early to rise." I was in the midst of downward-facing dog when I heard the xylophoney iPhone ringtone coming from the cubby area at the back of the studio. Even though at least half of the people in there probably had iPhones, I knew in my heart it was her. I spent the rest of yoga silently crying and feeling like Sister Failure. Once class was over, I ran to my phone and confirmed that it was indeed a 210 number that called. I was her one call and I missed it. Her voicemail was surprisingly terse. She called me "Amanda," which she hadn't really done in years (she uses my nickname "Mush"). Her voice sounded upbeat, but she gave me her address and then she was gone.


My only selfish worry now is that the Air Force is going to change my sister. I know it's going to change her. The thing is... I love my sister the way she is. My goofy, happy, make-her-sister-blush Katy. She's "the mean aunt" to my nephew (which actually means she's the loud, slightly-bossy one). She's the person who went around to select boys at the Lake View High School Homecoming Dance my senior year and told them to ask me to dance. She's the one who can seemingly say anything to my grandpa and, rather than offend him, make him laugh. She's the one who seems to make it her life's purpose when I'm home to make me laugh very loudly -- even if whatever she does gets her in "trouble" with our mom.

I can only hope that the Air Force simply "improves" or "upgrades" my sister. She'll still be the same goofy girl on the inside, but with a more grown-up outlook. From what I've heard, she's excelling in San Antonio. She's been given extra responsibilities and actually won half an hour of patio time by answering 13-of-13 questions correctly in front of her commanders. She's playing trumpet in the band. I'm disappointed that I won't be able to attend her graduation ceremony next month. It's at 7:15 a.m. on a Friday morning, which makes it difficult for me to take time off of work. I promise to make it up to her when she's out here...

Because she will be! She's going to language school in Monterey, which means we'll share a time zone and, once she has off-base privileges, will actually get to hang out. Her official title is going to be cryptolinguist -- and how badass is that? I can't wait to get to see her and hug her neck and take her out for her birthday. Even though I was trepidatious about her joining, I could not be prouder of her and I can not wait to show her off... My badass cryptolinguist sister.

This is your life (for sale).

Over the past week, I've taken calls from my parents in Midland and San Angelo with regards to items of mine in their storage spaces. The Midlanders are discontinuing their storage unit and moving things to the house. The San Angeloans are having a garage sale next week. I just find the items in question really funny.

In Midland is a crib, a changing table, and a high chair -- all of which I used as a baby and, let's be honest, figured I would have used for my own children by now. But that hasn't happened, and I haven't the heart to sell them. I've convinced the Angeloans to take them. Thank goodness! If they hadn't, I'd have to find a place for them here, and that could be problematic given that our landlord has taken to PADLOCKING the garage and, not that I expect to have anyone in my bedroom, but I suspect that seeing a crib and changing table might prove to be a little scary.

In San Angelo, it is the comforter set my grandparents bought me when I turned 1, my softball bat, a shower caddy, and the dry-erase board that hung on my dorm-room door. (RIP, Gaston Hall.) The dry-erase board still reads, "DAYS UNTIL AMANDA GRADUATES: 0" and includes an invitation to the other girls on my floor to come over and watch C.S.I. The episode, in case you're wondering, was "Chasing the Bus." The shower caddy I could care less about. The comforter is non-negotiable, as it's another one of those things I've always envisioned passing down to my own daughter. The bat I'm willing to sell, but not without a moment of hesitation. We bought that bat a week or so after one of those games that I will never forget...

My team had a double-header that day in the city tournament. I went 0-for-whatever in the first game, so frustrated that I was in tears. A coach from another team came and sat with me, calmed me down, and encouraged me. The second game, I went on a hitting street. I remember the rush of confidence that came over me as I sprinted to first base, just as I remember turning to the stands once I got there to see that coach sitting there with his thumbs up.

Memories or not, I haven't played softball in years. I suspect that somewhere in those boxes, they'll find the glove I inherited from my stepdad, along with my batting glove. The bat is going for $0.25. A bargain at twice the price, I must say.

My name is Mickey.

Anyone who really knows me knows that I've recently been suffering from severe anxiety issues and mild-to-severe depression. Going to sleep at night and having a restful night's sleep is often difficult. Last night, however, I had a truly amazing experience.

When I was a senior in college, I was convinced that a ghost lived in my dorm room. He or she was always benevolent and I only sensed him or her at night. I'd be lying in my bed and I would feel the sensation of someone sitting gently at the foot of my bed. I don't know how to describe it -- the covers would move a certain way and the mattress would dip slightly. Wow. I haven't really thought about my Gaston ghost in a very long time...

Last night before I went to bed, I prayed and asked God for a good night's sleep. I asked Him for peace and for patience. I asked Him for a sign that I'm still supposed to be in Los Angeles, and not near the family I miss so dearly. Shortly after I climbed into bed -- calm as can be -- I felt the familiar dipping of my mattress and shifting of my sheets. And at that moment, I was overcome with thoughts and memories of my Poppy -- things he would say to me. I knew it then -- my ghost was none other than my Poppy. I couldn't see him -- oh how I wanted to -- but I knew he was there. I cried and I cried and I cried and I could hear his voice in my head telling me that it would be okay. I was taken back to sitting in his lap in his recliner, and the way he smelled like cigarettes and Brut aftershave. I remembered "Gilly! Gilly! Gilly!" and how he used to tease me about how when I got my drivers license, I'd break down somewhere between San Angelo and Abilene and have to call him to come and pick me up. And, most of all, I remembered "Mickey's Lament," the poem he wrote for me when I was a baby -- one of the last things I ever remember him saying to me before he was put in the hospital all those years ago. That was the most comforting thing of all.

He was there. And then other people stopped by, too, but only briefly to wave. My Uncle Billy and my friend Betty Fuller. She said, "Hi, Amanda Mouse." Again, it's not like I could see them with my eyes -- my heart and my brain just knew they were there. All I know is that I'm not really that interested in dying at the moment, but I can't wait to get to Heaven.

But yeah... Now I have to wonder... Was my Gaston ghost really my Poppy coming to sit with me on some of those tough nights? Who knows...

Dancing.

I've recently come to the realization that I never liked dances growing up.

There were multiple reasons, the main one being that nobody ever really danced at those things. And if they did, no one ever asked me. Perhaps that's why I took a shining to the line dancing craze, and even La Macarena -- no partner required. But from my very first dance during sixth period on the last day of sixth grade, I found out that school dances were never like they appeared on TV. Or on Back to the Future.

Watching the most recent episode of Friday Night Lights, I was reminded of one dance in particular. It was my second dance, held sometime just before seventh grade commenced. All of the incoming junior high schoolers (Midland was not on a middle school system) were invited to a dance at the Midland High School Youth Center to celebrate and get to know one another. This was an early lesson on what junior high school was really like -- Hell.

I don't remember what I was wearing that night. I do remember what other people wore -- probably because, as a wallflower, I had ample time to observe and absorb. The predominant outfit for girls was a pair of plaid "dress shorts" over tights with either loafers or Mary-Janes. I felt so uncool, especially since my sixth grade girlfriends didn't greet with me as much enthusiasm as I had expected. I distinctly remember being ignored for the better part of the first hour I was there, which is probably an overdramatized version of what really happened considering that everything is dramatic when you're 13-years-old. I remember standing in the phone booth crying, trying to hear my parents over the strains of whatever M.C. Hammer song was popular at the time.

My daddy came to pick me up in his blue and silver Chevy truck. We drove out to the Kettle on Wall Street and talked over Cokes and a plate of french fries. I remember a lot of tears. I remember him telling me that I was beautiful and that I looked like my mama. I remember feeling so safe. I didn't need those stupid freckle-faced girls back at the youth center -- at least for the hour we sat in that coffee shop booth.

Sadly, I can't just call my dad to pick me up anymore. Living so far away makes it difficult for me to just drop by his office and lounge on his cool pleather loveseat while he runs joke after cheesy joke by me. (Where in the Bible was a car first referenced? "They all came in one Accord.") But I can still call him and he can pretty much talk me down about anything. Whether it's on my most homesick of days when all I want to do is pack my car and head east, or whether it's more of the same "why don't the boys like me?" stuff from junior high, Dad's got my number. I'm blessed.

(And for the record, I still don't like dances.)

Why no, I'm not involved in film, television or media.

And no, I don't know anyone who works in media research. At all.

So, tonight I was invited to a screening of the upcoming rom-com License to Wed. It was really pretty freaking adorable. Okay, so maybe the ending was a wee bit over the top, but NOT BAD. I learned two things tonight:

(1) I need a cute guy a la Ben in the movie.
(2) I need to make a million zillion dollars so I can go to Anthropologie and buy Mandy Moore's wardrobe from the movie.

Okay, there's a possible third thing. I need to learn how to make my hair purdy. But purdy in that, "Oh this was a piece of cake! I just rolled out of bed and pulled my hair up and doesn't it look good with my perfect glowy skin?"