Helen Winifred Gilmore

“Guilt. Catholic guilt. The guilt of not feeling guilty enough.”

– Tom O’Neil, Jack Kerouac: Last Call

My grandmother passed away last night. She had a very long and successful life and went peacefully in her sleep. We should all be so lucky. She was 94 years old. Would have been 95 in May. Celebrated her 70^th wedding anniversary last November. Had 5 children. 16(?) grandchildren, and I’m not even gonna try to count up all the great- and great-greats she had. I’m certain it wasn’t an easy life. The Great Depression. Both world wars. Korea. Vietnam. Iraq and its sequel. Man landing on the moon. The invention of television. Shit, movies getting sound, for chrissakes. I never heard her complain about anything. She got through life the way most of the members of her generation did. You did what you had to do and you made things work. One day at a time. You took responsibility for your lot in life. And worked to make a better one for your family. And I think her recipe was a good one.

I’m gonna be traveling to Kansas to attend her funeral. My grandfather would like all of his grandsons to serve as pallbearers. They had about a dozen or so grandsons so I’m not certain if we’re just gonna crowd around the casket or draw straws or what. Jeez. I suck. I fall back on glibness and flippancy. This sucks huge donkey dicks. Not necessarily my grandma’s passing, just the fact that I never know what is appropriate to say and do in these situations. Not that I’ve had to deal with this sort of thing very often. My family, for the most part, has been blessed with a very extended life line.

I just called my folk’s house to talk with them and a baritone voice answered the phone. I thought it was my youngest brother. “John?” I asked. “Yeah. Who’s this?” Oh fuck. Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme. I was not prepared for this! I wanted to work my way up to it. Or, like the coward that I am, put it off until the last possible moment. It was my grandfather on the line. My youngest brother is his namesake.

What the hell do you say to someone that just lost his life partner of 75 years? I mean, crap, my friend lost her cell phone this weekend and the best I could manage for that was: “That sucks. Wanna go get something to eat?”

I’m pretty well spoken and usually have a witty bon mot or two for any given situation. Provided the situation isn’t an absolutely shitty one like the death of a beloved family member. Even writing this feels wildly inappropriate.

“Hey, Grandpa. I’m really sorry.” Not a bad start.

“Well. She went peacefully. No pain. I just woke up and she was laying there under the covers with her arms up. She didn’t struggle in her sleep.”

“That’s good....” And that's about all I had. The well had run dry. Like I said, I totally suck at this.

My mom picked up another phone and rescued me. Cuz that's what moms do. I'm sure she learned it from the best.

She and my grandfather gave me the play by play of what happened from Friday morning until last night at 7 o’clock. My Grandma received her last rites about 45 minutes before she finally breathed her last. That’s good. Despite my own lapse, my grandparents are very devout Catholics and I know that receiving the final sacrament, The Anointing of the Sick, was very important to both of them. I feel the need to let everyone know that I actually know the correct name of the sacrament. Grandma, I’m not nearly the sinner everyone thinks I am.

Shit. I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to let everyone know what happened and that I’m gonna be out of town for a bit.

Now I’m gonna go and do the dishes underneath a single lit bulb near the sink in an otherwise dark kitchen. I think we all have a sorta iconic picture that comes to mind when we think of a loved one. For my Grandma, when I picture her I have an image etched in my brain from many summers spent at their lake house in Oklahoma. We would all go out fishing, then my dad and uncles (and sometimes us kids) would clean the fish and my Grandma would fry up a whole mess of perch for all of us to eat. Without fail my father would get one that still had a bone in it and would jokingly accuse my grandmother of trying to kill him. Even though he was the one cleaning the darn things, it was still a joke they shared. After dinner we would all go out in the front room and watch baseball if it was on (Grandpa would never fail to comment on how much too tight Pete Rose’s pants were.) Or we might go catch fireflies or light some firecrackers or something. But Grandma would stay in the kitchen doing the oh-so-many dishes in the sink beneath a single lit bulb. I’m sure others must have helped her with the chore, but I have no memory of it. Just her. Doing it because it needed to be done. I’m going to miss you, Grandma.