{"id":150,"date":"2014-06-17T19:20:58","date_gmt":"2014-06-17T19:20:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/?page_id=150"},"modified":"2016-06-22T13:30:41","modified_gmt":"2016-06-22T13:30:41","slug":"conversations-with-my-dead-grandmother","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/?page_id=150","title":{"rendered":"Conversations With My Dead Grandmother"},"content":{"rendered":"

Conversations With My Dead Grandmother<\/strong><\/p>\n

By Meghan O’Brien<\/p>\n

Copyright.\u00a9Meghan O’Brien 2002<\/p>\n

“Grandma?”<\/p>\n

Somewhere in the back of my mind I realize how insane I must sound, and a mad little bark of a laugh escapes from my mouth in a burst of air. I shake my head, and then I try again.<\/p>\n

“Grandma, I need to talk to you about something.”<\/p>\n

I wait for a moment, looking at the cars stopped ahead of me on the highway in one of the countless traffic jams to which I will be subjected in my lifetime. For a moment I reflect that if nothing else, at least my grandmother no longer has to deal with the mundanity of rush hour.<\/p>\n

“I have to admit, I feel a little silly talking to you like this.” I pause for a moment, and then sigh. “No offense. I mean… maybe you can hear me and you appreciate that someone is finally speaking to you again.” I snort a little at an errant thought. “For all I know, maybe the dead wish more people were a little crazy. It must get boring, all that silence.”<\/p>\n

I fall silent myself, and then go on.<\/p>\n

“So I’ll just try and listen, too, okay? If you want to talk back to me, feel free. And I’ll try not to put words in your mouth, even though I know what I’d like to hear you say. I’m just not sure it’s what you’d really say if you were here with me.”<\/p>\n

Don’t be so sure of that, sweetie.\u00a0<\/em>I inch my car forward as traffic moves for a moment, calling up the rumbling, honied voice I remember like my own.\u00a0I’d like to think that you knew me pretty well.<\/em><\/p>\n

“I’d like to think that, too, grandma. But, see… I don’t know. I don’t know what to think about certain things.”<\/p>\n

What kinds of things, sweet pea?<\/em><\/p>\n

I grin a little at the term of endearment, and then try and think of how to have this conversation.<\/p>\n

Don’t worry so much, honey. Just talk to me. You never worried so much about talking to me when you were a kid.<\/em><\/p>\n

“Well, that’s just it, grandma… I was a kid. There wasn’t much to talk about.”<\/p>\n

Oh, I don’t know. I thought we had some good conversations. I always loved spending time with my girl.<\/em><\/p>\n

“I loved it, too, grandma.” I stare at the license plate of the car in front of me. Texas. I wonder briefly what they’re doing all the way up here, in rush hour traffic of all things. “I miss you a lot.”<\/p>\n

So what did you want to talk to me about?\u00a0<\/em>I scowl a little, and then feel a little crazier when I reflect that I’m upset with my dead grandma’s voice that I’ve conjured into my head for not allowing me to stall.You’re stalling, aren’t you?<\/em><\/p>\n

“What’s it like, grandma?” I ask. I’m not ready to say what I really want to say, despite the fact that I know in my heart that my grandmother can’t hear me, anyway. “Is it what you expected?”<\/p>\n

What, sweetie?<\/em><\/p>\n

“Dying,” I answer, my voice strange around the lump that’s formed in my throat. “Is it true what they say about the white light and the tunnel full of dead relatives?”<\/p>\n

I hear a throaty chuckle in my head and smile almost involuntarily. When I was little, I lived to hear my grandma laugh. It was the warmest sound, and it used to make me feel like I was wrapped up in one of her hand-made patchwork quilts, loved and safe and secure. I luxuriate in the melody of it.<\/p>\n

Well, honey, I’ll tell you… bright light, yes. Tunnel with dead relatives, not really. It was like… I saw things, from my life, lived some moments again. It was all feeling and images and sound, and then it was over in a flash.\u00a0<\/em>I hear the chuckle again before she goes on.\u00a0But you know it’s biological, right? Chemical. It’s the brain dying and those last moments of electricity sparking out. Nothing more, nothing less.<\/em><\/p>\n

I’m not a religious person, nor a spiritual one. What she says makes perfect sense to me, but I feel a little disappointed nonetheless. Grandma had been a devout Catholic all her life, and I wonder if it’s my own scientific bias that colors this revelation. I cock my head to the side in serious thought. Maybe I really am crazy. I lift my foot from the brake and start to ease forward, the car ahead of me suddenly moving again.<\/p>\n

You’re not crazy,\u00a0<\/em>the rumbling voice says,\u00a0and you’d better watch out for that car on your left!<\/em><\/p>\n

I slam my foot back onto the brake as the blue Honda beside me swerves recklessly into my lane, barely missing my front bumper by a few inches. I narrow my eyes. I’m definitely crazy.<\/p>\n

No you’re not,\u00a0<\/em>my grandmother says.\u00a0Just keep your eyes on the road!<\/em><\/p>\n

“Yes, ma’am.”<\/p>\n

So I’ll ask you again… what do you need to tell me, sweetheart?<\/em><\/p>\n

I gulp and wonder at my suddenly racing heart. How can it be difficult to discuss these things with a ghost? An apparition? A goddamned, make-believe, guilt-ridden fantasy? I know the answer, though. It’s hard because I loved her, and I want to think that she’d love me… even if she really knew me.<\/p>\n

“When you’re dead,” I begin tentatively, feeling my way around the subject, “can you still see things? I mean, do you know things? Like how people are doing?”<\/p>\n

I see a lot, sweetie.\u00a0<\/em>Her voice is compassionate and I shudder at the implication of her words.\u00a0I was so proud of you when you graduated.<\/em><\/p>\n

I smile a little then, remembering the day I received my college diploma, and how I’d wished for my grandmother to be there. I’d imagined her watching over me, grey eyes so like my own shining with pride.<\/p>\n

I was there,\u00a0<\/em>she confirmed quietly.\u00a0You knew that. You knew I was proud of you.<\/em><\/p>\n

“Yeah,” I acknowledge. “I knew you were proud of me. I just-” and here is where it started to get hard, but I knew I had to keep going, “I’m just not sure you’d be proud about other things.”<\/p>\n

Just tell me, honey.\u00a0<\/em>The command is soft and spoken without anger or judgment, and I feel my eyes water at the quiet knowledge contained within them.<\/p>\n

“It’s like this, grandma,” I start, trying hard to inject a false bravado into my words. I can hear from the trembling in my voice that I’m failing miserably. How do I say this? What words can I use with my grandmother? “I’m not going to get married. Ever. I mean, not like you’d expect…”<\/p>\n

Say it.\u00a0<\/em>She sounds impatient; her impatience reflects my own at my inability to verbalize what I’ve thought about since the day she died.<\/p>\n

“I’m a lesbian, grandma.” I pause, waiting for some response from her. Receiving none, I add, “I like women. Romantically.”<\/p>\n

I know what a lesbian is, goofy.<\/em><\/p>\n

I laugh in surprise at the response, and then sober quickly. “Well?”<\/p>\n

Was that as bad you as you thought it would be?<\/em><\/p>\n

“I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly. “Ask me again after you give me your reaction.”<\/p>\n

I can hear her sigh.\u00a0My reaction?\u00a0<\/em>She sounds tired.\u00a0I could say that I’m disappointed that you never gave me a chance to learn to accept it and love you when I was alive.<\/em><\/p>\n

I feel shamed, my face flushing red from it. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I wasn’t so sure about myself then, and I was so young-“<\/p>\n

She stops my rambling with one word.\u00a0But.<\/em><\/p>\n

“But?”<\/p>\n

But I’m not sure I deserved that chance. I’m not sure that I would have learned to accept it back then. Not before my time came, anyway.<\/em><\/p>\n

I exhale noisily at this revelation. There’s a sickening, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I struggle to come to terms with the implication of the statement.<\/p>\n

“You’re disgusted by it, aren’t you?” I try and keep the hurt out of my voice. “You can’t understand it, right?”<\/p>\n

No,\u00a0<\/em>she says firmly, and I am surprised by the benevolence in her voice.\u00a0No, I’m not disgusted by it. Not right now, right here. I understand it. This is who you are, honey, and nobody has the right to be disgusted by that.<\/em><\/p>\n

“But you would have been?” I ask.<\/p>\n

I don’t know,\u00a0<\/em>she says.\u00a0Maybe. Probably. I wouldn’t have understood it, and I would have believed it was a sin.\u00a0<\/em>She chuckles in what sounds to be self-deprecation.\u00a0I had a lot of beliefs, you know. A whole lifetime of them.<\/em><\/p>\n

I think of the rosaries and the crucifixes I inherited when she died. Precious to me because they were hers, but their meaning as foreign to me as my sexuality surely would be to her. I wonder what happens to religious beliefs when you die. Not everyone can be right, so what happens to those who discover they were wrong?<\/p>\n

“Do you still have beliefs?” I ask.<\/p>\n

Some,\u00a0<\/em>she answers.\u00a0It’s different, though. It’s not something I can explain to you now.<\/em><\/p>\n

“I understand.” I don’t, though.<\/p>\n

You don’t,\u00a0<\/em>she chuckles.\u00a0But you will. One day.<\/em><\/p>\n

Her words make me shudder a little. I look ahead at traffic again, seeing that the cars around me are starting to pick up the pace. I sigh in relief and press my car into motion.<\/p>\n

“So do you think it was better that I didn’t tell you? That you died loving me completely, even if you didn’t know me totally?”<\/p>\n

I don’t know if it was better, sweetheart, but it is what it is. I will always love you completely, and I would have loved you even if you had told me. Even if I’d reacted badly, I’d have loved you.<\/em><\/p>\n

“I don’t know if I could have stood to see disappointment or revulsion in your eyes,” I admit to her. “You were my whole world when I was a kid. I wanted to be just like you when I grew up. I thought you were the most beautiful, loving, funny human being alive.”<\/p>\n

You are like me, sweetie.\u00a0<\/em>She laughs full-out, a deep belly rumble that tugs a reluctant smile from my lips.\u00a0Sometimes you’re so like me that I’m not sure how any woman will ever put up with you.<\/em><\/p>\n

I grin harder at the truth of her words. About the only person I ever knew who was more stubborn than me is my grandmother. “So you’re really okay with this, then?” I pause. “With me?”<\/p>\n

Honey, one thing I’ve learned is that not being okay with these things… it’s petty. Petty and small-minded and utterly useless.\u00a0<\/em>She chuckles again.\u00a0Yes, I’m okay.<\/em><\/p>\n

I exhale shakily, heady relief flooding through my body. I wonder a little at this reaction. After all, I’ve only come out to a voice in my head, not my grandmother in the flesh. But still… I feel a sense of closure that I’ve never felt about this before.<\/p>\n

“I’m glad we had this talk, grandma.”<\/p>\n

So am I, sweetie.\u00a0<\/em>Her voice is tender and I can feel my eyes stinging with emotion. Even after five years, I miss her so much.<\/p>\n

“I’ve always wished I’d told you before you died.” I don’t want to say goodbye to her yet, so I keep speaking. “That’s something that has always bothered me.”<\/p>\n

Don’t bother with regrets,\u00a0<\/em>she says.\u00a0Trust me, it’s not worth it. The important thing is that you’ve told me now, right?<\/em><\/p>\n

“Right,” I agree. Silence for a moment, and then, “Hey, grandma?”<\/p>\n

She doesn’t answer.<\/p>\n

“Grandma?”<\/p>\n

Still no answer. I’m frustrated, and I try to conjure up the familiar voice once again. My effort feels strange and false, however, and I stop trying when I realize that the moment is over. She’s not going to answer me.<\/p>\n

“Yeah, definitely crazy,” I confirm for myself, and continue my drive onwards towards home.<\/p>\n

End<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Conversations With My Dead Grandmother By Meghan O’Brien Copyright.\u00a9Meghan O’Brien 2002 “Grandma?” Somewhere in the back of my mind I realize how insane I must sound, and a mad little bark of a laugh escapes from my mouth in a burst of air. I shake my head, and then I try again. “Grandma, I need […]<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":37,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/150"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=150"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/150\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":151,"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/150\/revisions\/151"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/37"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.meghanobrien.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=150"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}