“Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than gratitude.”

― Anne Frank

My grandma cared for every living creature around her. I remember being sick as a child; she would set up a private pediatric ward in our home with big, warm pots of soup along with her homemade medicines. It may have taken time for the physical ailment to pass, but something about the care she gave made me feel a deeper kind of healing. I loved her. I marveled as she repeatedly put her own life on hold to nurse loved-ones back to their former physical and emotional strength. For me, it was like watching Superwoman! Though I doubt Grandma saw it that way, she seemed to be doing what came naturally to her. She was by no means perfect; even as a child, that was clear, but she was beautifully imperfect.

My memories of her are weathered, war-torn, and shrouded in youthful ignorance, but I remember her as a strong, assertive woman. She expressed her thoughts without trepidation. When speaking, she looked you in the eye, even if she knew you wouldn’t appreciate her offering of wisdom. She loved to laugh and never seemed happier than when surrounded by family. It might sound cliché, but she was the glue that held us together. I truly loved her. Sadly, sometimes we’re so awed by the strength in someone that we fail to acknowledge their vulnerabilities. And the same prodigious reverence that honors them while they’re strong only serves as neglect when they are weak… Not long after I turned thirteen, my grandma got very sick.

The year was 1993, and I had come to the last few days of seventh grade (don’t do the math – it’s rude). Tall, witty, introspective, and overweight, I’d never been the teenage boy’s dream, but as much as my borderline-feminist heart hated to admit it… I wanted to be. Like many adolescent girls, I longed for beauty and admiration. It wasn’t a desire that kept me up at night; to be honest, I was fairly content being me in the absence of my peers. I was generous, fun, warm, and had a great sense of humor. However, my physical flaws would often envelop me, leaving me sullenly questioning why I didn’t have the perfect hair, skin, teeth, and body. I watched as the boys in class fell over the same types of girls with the same types of features – features I seemed to lack.

I’m not sure what gave me the courage, but by the end of Spring, I decided to trade my oversized jeans and t-shirts for my older sister’s more womanly, fitted attire. Surprisingly, heads began to turn as I walked by. Boys who never acknowledged my presence were calling out my name in the halls! I was finally being whispered about, finally being stared at; by the end of every day, my face literally hurt from smiling. Ordinarily, I would have been consumed by the lingering promise of summer break, but this newfound attention from the opposite sex had me wishing for a little more school time.

I remember this particular June day with blaring clarity. I couldn’t wait to get to school! I had “borrowed” my aunt’s inappropriately low-cut top, my sister’s jeans, and tied one of my dad’s plaid shirts around my waist. [Whether you were into Nirvana or Tupac, plaid was the thing in 1993]. I felt like a real woman and couldn’t wait to be seen. From the moment I entered the building, all eyes were on me [slight Tupac reference], and I reveled in it. I quickly morphed into those silly girls I’d spent so much time making fun of; laughing at the boy’s corny jokes, seeking out ways to get their attention. I was swimming in a sea of teenage vanity and could almost hear the feminist in me gurgling from beneath the surface.

After the final bell, I rushed out into freedom and fresh air. The sky was pale blue with light brushes of wispy clouds. The temperature was warm, but the breeze felt cool and calm against my face. My walk home proved to be as big an ego-boost as the school day. There was one guy I’d seen around the neighborhood dozens of times, but he’d never spoken to me before that day. He was older, popular, and so cute. I didn’t even know his name. He was the ‘too cool for school’ type who only spoke when he was trying to impress the crowd or when absolutely necessary. He stopped me and asked if I could hang out with him later – I eagerly agreed.

Sidebar: It never occurred to me that this 18-year old man was trying to “hang out” with a 7^th-grade girl. Or that he only acknowledged me after I’d stuffed my pubescent breasts, hips, and thighs into grown women’s clothes. I’d like to go back and have a little conversation with him!

Okay, back to it…

Like most days, I stopped at Grandma’s house before heading home. I ran in to say hello, sat with her for approximately four minutes, and tried to make a break for it. [After all, there was a very attractive pedophile waiting for me. Smh.]But before I made it out, Grandma asked me if I would rub cream onto her legs. She had been suffering with edema, and her legs were so swollen that the skin was beginning to tear. It was extremely painful and she wasn’t able to do it herself.  On any other day, ANY other day of my entire life, I would’ve been willing to sit there for hours to rub her legs and try to make her feel better. But on this day, all I thought of was myself and my ego. So, I sat down next to the woman who had sacrificed much of her life for me and anyone else who needed her, and I huffed, puffed, and sighed while I half-heartedly rubbed cream onto her aching legs. She eventually said, weakly, “That’s okay; you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” With that, I jumped to my feet, promised to do it later, ran outside, and had a fabulous rest of my day.

The next morning, I woke early to an unfamiliar commotion. Through my bedroom door, I heard my mother tell my sister that grandma had passed away during the night.  I laid there, motionless, desperate to believe that I’d heard wrong. Or perhaps I was still asleep, and none of this was real – but I knew otherwise. Mom soon came in to share the news with me. I sat in the center of my bed, knees against my chest, stoic and alone. I don’t recall much about that day – don’t know what I wore – don’t remember if a single boy looked at me – couldn’t even say whether or not I went to school. None of the foolish joys from the day before could be found. They abandoned me as the ground I stood on crumbled away. That day, I knew only two things: my grandma was gone, and I would never get the chance to undo, to mend, my last day with her.

The months that followed were a whirlwind of sorrow, denial, self-hatred, and bitter regret. It took a long time to accept and ultimately forgive my behavior. I realized how single-minded, selfish, and immature I was capable of being, and it terrified me. I now live my life conscious of the needs of the people around me. I give of myself freely and without regret. I know to stop and weigh a moment against my emotions so that I’m able to respond with the proper precedence. I prize my loved ones and make great efforts to make them feel treasured.

Looking back, I don’t think I ever wore that outfit again,… never had the desire. My juvenile need for attention died with Janice, and I’ve always been okay with that – maybe even a little grateful. I learned early that my value isn’t connected to my cleavage and that I don’t want a man’s attention based on the way I fill out a pair of jeans. I choose clothing based on my mood and comfort. As a 40-year old woman, I don’t own any make-up because this face, fresh and naked, flawed and blemished, is me. I re-directed the efforts to decorate my outside into strengthening and developing the woman I am on the inside – and I love her.

There is still lingering damage to contend with; I am terrified of experiencing that level of pain again and often give too much out of guilt or fear. I’m ruthlessly hard on myself when I fail to be there for someone who needs me because I know what can happen. I know that there are no small decisions – seemingly meaningless moments can create wounds so deep that even time fails to heal. I don’t believe there will ever be a day when this memory doesn’t live within me. As Monk would say, “It’s a blessing and a curse.” Although the pain and shame are indescribable, I live with a constant reminder to do better, to be better; I’m oddly grateful for that. And while I am by no means perfect and never will be, I strive daily to be as beautifully imperfect as possible.