The Living Memorial is a communication project that seeks to build community in loss by sharing stories of lives lived. The goal includes breaking the silence shrouding people's loss experiences so that people can heal. Watch and hear my portrayal of Grandma's life by clicking below:
Spoiler alert and opt-in: Please note this story includes images that may be difficult to see, such as of illness and of graveside services. This story also talks about Jesus, a central person in Grandma's life.
Spoiler alert and opt-in: Please note this story includes images that may be difficult to see, such as of illness and of graveside services. This story also talks about Jesus, a central person in Grandma's life.
Read my digital story of Grandma and My Story, Growing Up, Day in the Life, Caregiving, and Transitions in loss:
Grandma and My Story
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| Grandma greets me, 2004 |
Grandma loved to sing. Growing up, she sang for her church in the small railroad towns of eastern Washington. She sang in college, in church, and at home. She sang solos, duets, trios, other numbered groups, a capella and with accompaniment, and she sang in the choir. She sang songs to Judy, her adult daughter, and Judy clapped her hands. She sang until calcium deposited itself along her spine in her throat, and then she hummed. She hummed until subsequent TIA strokes weakened her voice, and then you just guessed that she thought in song:
Heavenly sunshine,
Heavenly sunshine,
Flooding my soul with
Glory div-i-i-ine!
Heavenly sunshine,
Heavenly sunshine,
Hallelujah!
Jesus is mine.
Heavenly sunshine,
Flooding my soul with
Glory div-i-i-ine!
Heavenly sunshine,
Heavenly sunshine,
Hallelujah!
Jesus is mine.
Grandma told me that her inability to sing out loud was one of the things that she missed the most.
“I used to sing all the time, in the kitchen, at church.”
I remembered her singing at church.
I told her she sings in her heart, and though we both knew that this was true, we knew it wasn’t the same.
“Well, Grandma, don’t worry,” I said, “You can belt it out in heaven.”
She liked that.
Whenever she called, and whenever I visited, Grandma sang each time she said hello, and when Grandma talked, she did so with a smile and with a song in her voice. The reader will pardon my sentiment, but I am not being too nostalgic. Her voice-print spoke in song.
I connected with Grandma the most in conversation. Conversation after all contributes to building community, and I enjoyed our conversations. Grandma planted a love of words inside of me as a way to grow love for people.
Growing Up
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| Grandma with her siblings, ~1930s/1940s |
So it was fitting that she was born in September.
"The days are warm and the evenings are cool in September," she said, whimsical of our early fall western Washington weather.
Grandma did not origin in Western Washington as I did. She was born in Eastern Washington, when the railroad was king, in Providence, a town whose name fit her faith-view on life: "God still sits on the throne." She was born Phyllis Adeline Kuppinger on September 1, 1923 to Ralph Waldo Kuppinger and Marie Rose Sammons. Grandma’s name has since caused confusion due to a conflict between her parents. Her father insisted that she be called Phyllis. Her mother insisted on Adeline because she had an aunt Adeline whom she admired.
“Fine,” Great Grandma Marie said. “We’ll name her Phyllis Adeline but we’re going to call her Adeline.”
So there you have it. No one called her Phyllis unless they were a physician, teacher, or employer who read her name from a list for the first time. Her friends and family called her Adeline, and those closest to her called her Addie.
September transitions from Summer to Fall.
I was born in March, a transition from Winter to Spring.
Growing up, Grandma’s house was a place that held fun experiences for me, so much so that I often rode my “Powder Puff” to visit. My Powder Puff was a bright pink bike with a vinyl banana seat that had bright flowers printed on it, and plastic rainbow “Spokey Dokies” on the spokes. I rode that hot rod of a bike in a rainbow blur from my house down the five blocks to Grandma’s house. Being that the ride was all down hill, the ride to Grandma’s house was a breeze. The ride, or walk, home was an entirely different matter.
I remember eating popcorn that Grandma popped in a pan atop the stove and sprinkled with salt. Not to be outdone, Grandpa delivered me a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. There I sat on their couch eating my favorite treats with a book propped open on my lap: Sheer paradise.
I began to pleasure read while at Grandma’s house. As the regimen went, she sat in her chair, read her books and the daily Seattle Times, while Grandpa watched westerns or Colombo on the blaring TV. How we could concentrate reading in that noise, I do not know. I knew what I needed to know, that I did not want to go home when Mom and Dad called Grandma’s house. So they let me stay another half an hour. You can do a lot in half an hour, especially if you’re a kid. They picked me up at 11:30 p.m. on those Saturday nights. Grandpa and Grandma did not retire, that is, go to bed, early. They were a lot of fun, and I had them all to myself at my Saturday night hangout.
Day in the Life
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| Aunt Judy and Grandma, Mother's Day, 2004 |
She sighed.
Grandma dispensed Judy’s medications from her storage container, which she kept in the drawer of the kitchen dish rack, and placed the pills on a paper plate with two cookies. Grandma cared for Aunt Judy until Grandma was 80 years old. Once a mother, always a mother.
The microwave beeped three times, and Grandma turned and walked to the microwave, opened the door, retrieved the glass liquid measurer filled with hot water, and walked back to the kitchen table. Her slippers shuffled on the floor to the offbeat of her occasional sighs.
Judy wandered in and out of the kitchen, sometimes mumbling, sometimes yelling, and sometimes quiet, and stood by Grandma to wait for Judy's meds, cookies, and drink, which was usually hot chocolate or chamomile tea. Grandma gave me hot chocolate and cookies, too. Sometimes I politely declined, or at least I tried to, because I was already stuffed to the gills with popcorn, iced tea, mini chocolate bars, and maybe a cookie or two at our weekly movie night. This is the cardinal rule of grandmothers: feed your grandchildren, give them snacks, and spoil them because eventually they will go home. Hence the cardinal rule of grandchildren: go to Grandma’s house as often as you can, and eat the cookies.
“HMmm-hmm! Want a cookie?” Judy asked.
“Sure. Thank you.”
Putting Judy to bed with tea and cookies was Grandma’s nightly routine. Actually, putting Judy to bed and keeping her there was Grandma’s nightly routine. Judy took her meds when her beverage was ready, and in fast fashion, whipped her head back and tossed the handful of pills down the gullet. Then she gulped down her hot brew and ate her cookies. Sometimes she asked for more, and Grandma gave her more.
“Can I go to bed now?”
“Yes. Goodnight Judy.” Grandma kissed and hugged her adult daughter.
Judy walked down the hall to her room. She left her lamp on at all times day and night. I wondered if she was going to sleep or if she just laid there. Only when I heard Judy snore did I know for certain she was asleep, and even then, Judy might wake up five minutes later, and for her it was morning and time to draw a bath and to get dressed.
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken, but who wants to be strong?” Grandma sat down at the kitchen table and propped her chin in the palm of her hand. She thought and rested her elbow on the table. “Sometimes I want someone to be strong for me.”
And then she smiled.
Caregiving
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| Grandma and Me, Spring 2009 |
Life spirals out of control quickly when a loved one’s health ails and you become responsible to care for them. Forgiveness is one way to choose a path of wellness for the future. This path, unlike aging, ill health, and death (which are bound to happen), is within our grasp. Guilt and other emotions can transpire during caregiving for either the caregivee or the caregiver. As Ketterman and King (2001) write, “Life is filled with emotion. Grief and depression are normal responses to loss, and all of us feel these emotions at one time or another.” Pressure comes with care giving, and at times you will feel tension in deciding what is best for your loved one, and you will hear the quiet and unspoken air that they disagree with you.
In caring for Grandma by visiting her and helping her with various errands, I wondered at times if I was selfish. At times I even felt angry—angry at the pain, angry at the uncertainty, and angry at the disruption. As much as I loved Grandma, at times I felt that I didn’t want to give my time and effort to be present when she needed me the most. It seemed suffering and potential loss was a burden too heavy to bear, that is, until the guilt settled in, and then the burden became an accusation. I reflected. I asked myself the question: Did I want to preserve my life from pain and loss, or did I not want to break away from my activity, my busy schedule, or my sense of worth and achievement?
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| Grandma and Me, Fall 2008 |
Thankfully Grandma had more grace than I. She knew my quality.
“You will have many jewels in your crown,” Grandma often said to me. “I pray God will bless you for all you have done for me.”
Transitions
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| Grandma and Me, December 13, 2009 |
Two days later at breakfast, I startled, thought of Grandma dying, and panicked, then paused. That day I sported one of my favorite T-shirts to wear, a sage green ringer T-shirt with the Japanese Kanji for healing on the front and a Bible verse in Japanese about Jesus healing people on the back. I put down my spoon and prayed. I prayed a release prayer, a prayer that asked God to deliver while acknowledging Grandma was his, not mine, and her life was her course, not mine. I prayed for her faithfulness, for our comfort as a family, for healing of our broken spirits.
A half hour later I startled again when I heard the front door lock turn and the door open.
I stood front-and-center in the kitchen holding a 5 quart pot of recently boiled beans in my hands.
"Put that down," my husband said.
He looked ashen.
"What's wrong?" I asked, frozen, still holding the pot of beans. I must have looked ridiculous with my red and orange striped apron and hands sporting red oven mitts.
"Put that down," he repeated.
"Did you get fired?" I asked, putting the pot of beans on a pot holder on the counter.
He took both my hands in his. I held his cold and clammy hands. I peered in perplexity into his face and waited impatiently for his pale lips to spill the news.
"Your mom called me today," was all he had to say, and I knew that Grandma had died.
Navigating loss can be as the Psalmist described: a dark and shadowed valley (Psa. 23). Grief can feel as fear (Lewis, 1961). Sometimes persons need a guide for such a potentially frightening journey. For me, that person was often Grandma. I had worried I’d unravel in fear when Grandma died. "Who will love me now?" I had wailed. Now I know better. My husband held my hands. No profile on anyone can exist without the backdrop of faithful and ardent supporters. Community needs the self as social interacting and caring.
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| Bouquet James and I made for Grandma's burial service |
Strangely, and beautifully, I felt centered and at peace at tension with those first few nights when the tears threatened to keep me awake. Instead I journaled. I wrote poems. I crafted her story in text and pixels. What's more I experienced, and then treasured, our shared moments. Strangely and beautifully, much as the raw restraint and release in poetry, when Grandma died I did not feel her death. I felt her love (Rosko, 2010, January 20).
I remember Grandma with faith, hope, and love. I see her smile. Her eyes are bright. Such is the quality of sharing a life lived over the course of real and felt time: in the pain, a smile lingers, and eyes alight point the way. So you see The Living Memorial is actually choosing to live together in meaningful and constructive conversation amidst the tragic much as Grandma's breathing lessons when she transitioned to rehab care: "Inhale to smell the flower; exhale to blow out the candles."
"Do not be afraid of anything... anything!" Grandma told me once. "Look up, for your redemption draws near!"
Hope whispers, just as we sang at Grandma's life celebration service:
Whispering hope, oh how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.
Hope whispers until I breathe and my breath blows the fear away. Do you hear it?
What keeps a community together in loss? Dialoguing the hope and, as Pastor J. once said, continuing on in the person's good example.
Now, what's your story?
