Two older posts about my deburrings (skin cancer excisions), and my Grandma G. The grandma stuff is the important part. (Spoiler: I survived the surgeries.)
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| Grandma and Grandpa G, ca. 1954. |
The Deburring...
posted 07/11/08
Tough day, and it's barely 1:30 PM. I spent three hours this morning
"under the knife" at the nearby medical center, getting some of the
results of my youthful, tanned beach-god days removed. Whilst awake.
But under appropriate locals.
As usual in these things, I had
plenty of time to sit around waiting, and thus plenty of time to
contemplate my navel. Intellectually, I wasn't worried. I told a
co-worker the other day that I thought this would be much less
unpleasant that a root canal. And I was right. But emotionally, I knew
I was scared. And that somehow brought me to what must be my
definitive "happy place", one that I hadn't remembered or connected with
emotionally in a long, long time.
After the accident, mom took
me with her to Illinois so she could heal up at her mom and dad's place.
I don't know the exact events that took place after that, but my
earliest memories are of grandpa and grandma G. living with us in L.A.
They apparently moved to California to stay with us and help care for
me. I don't know if grandma G's breast cancer was a factor in that
move, but I do remember knowing that she had it. And I remember the
huge machine that was used for her radiation therapy, and visiting her
in the hospital.
What I remembered today was what I did and how I
felt when I was little-little. Grandma G spent most of her time in
bed, and I would crawl in with her and we would talk. Looking back,
that was the happiest, safest place I've ever been in my entire life. It
puts the the crazy babysitter and the psychotic nuns into a sharp
relief, which I'm willing to bet put the cap on my preference for going
it alone.
I guess that warmth and safety is the experience I've been looking to re-create all these years.
Interesting.
Back Under the Knife
I spent about an hour or so under the knife, again. New surgeon, new hospital (more, later).
Once again, in pre-op, I found myself thinking of my time with Gramma
G. I think what makes that time so special to me is that it was
unconditional. I suppose she knew, or at least suspected, that she was
dying during my time with her. If so, she never seemed to show me that
she was afraid. It seemed to me that she had nothing else to do when
she shared her time with me. I'm sure that her dying was a great strain
to my mom and Grampa G, so they were, of course, distracted.
After she passed on, my life changed. Grampa
G would take off for a few months to spend time with his other children
in Arizona and Illinois. When he was gone, I would stay overnight at
my best friend's house, and during the summers,stay during the day as
well. This was because my mom worked the night shift at the hospital.
Anyway, I know where my "happy place" is. Thanks, Gramma.
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