It’s April 4, 2019—a day that’s been marked on the calendar for some time—I have a medical evaluation slated for the afternoon. My therapist believes that I should see a nurse practitioner, with hopes of finding a medication that works for me, addressing my adulthood struggle with anxiety, depression, and occasional hopelessness. I want to go, I don’t want to go—it’s a flip-flopping set of emotions that leave me uneasy whenever I think about the conversation I’ll have with the NP.
Early this morning I’m in a coffee shop, rushing as usual, when I hear a familiar voice say my name. When I turn, I recognize my Nana, sitting at a little table by herself, and enjoying a small coffee in a paper cup. She’s wearing her slacks, a conservative blouse, and a little vest. Maybe it’s stylish, I’m not sure, but the vest kind of reminds me of a Walmart greeter.
“Come over here, I want to hold you,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”
I love my Nana, so there’s no time wasted, as I walk over and she stands up, tucking herself under my right arm. I never realized how short she is. She mumbles in a foreign language, something I can’t recognize, but it feels good to hold onto her. She’s one of the few relationships I’ve had in my life that I’m certain is genuine and filled with love—the stuff Hallmark cards can’t emulate. We’ve all got grandparents; I’m sure you can relate.
Soon after I let her go, I’m talking with my mother on the phone.
“I saw Nana this morning.”
There’s a pause, but Mom eventually answers, “Did she give you a number to play?”
Mom was referring to my Nana’s borderline obsession with playing the daily lottery numbers. Lots of older people have that bug, but I know my grandmother has it in spades. And while she didn’t give me a daily number to play there in the coffee shop—just 12 hours prior—the evening of April 3rd, my mother’s birthday had come up in the daily drawing. Strange.
“You got a gift,” Mom tells me. “Do you know it was three years a go this week that Nana died? I think either today or tomorrow was her burial.”
Then the goosebumps kick in. Mom’s right, though I had no idea. Nana has been dead for 3 years now. I’d only dreamt of her earlier this morning.
And I remembered her burial when Mom brought it up—an April morning cold and gray that seemed to lift into sunlight only moments before I joined my mother and grandfather atop a small ridge in Andover’s Spring Grove Cemetery. The land was still frozen, packets of snow peppered the landscape in every direction—and solemn over her resting place was a lilac colored casket.
I’d come directly from work for her burial, hardly enough time to shake off the tight ropes of insurance guidelines and medical reports I’d been digging through only 20 minutes earlier. Mom’s emotions were easy for me to see. Her sunglasses were dark and her face tense, but her aura was plain enough for a son to spot. She was saddened, of course she was, but there was a great wave pouring from her. She could say goodbye now, knowing her mother was free from the dementia and suffering she’d endured. Nana was unburdened from the chains that we all drag toward the ends of our human lives. She’d lived a difficult life, all of her life. We knew that. Even her adult son, my Uncle Donny, had been lost to demons in brown bottles with delicate but dangerous paper labels. Nana had suffered. And the end of her days were not particularly kind.
But she had a daughter, Sandra. She had a grandson, Barry. For a simple woman, that was more than enough love to occupy her tiny life.
My grandfather, also suffering from dementia, didn’t know who I was when I arrived at the cemetery. He apologized for not knowing, for his own memory he knew had betrayed him. We’d never had any relationship, so I wasn’t resentful or disappointed. I felt only pity, one human being to another. I’m sorry this happened to you. Grandpa Joe took a few unsteady steps toward the casket and cried, squeezing his hands together, with no one left in the world to hang onto to but himself—and even then, fading. For a moment, God granted him clarity of mind. He knew his wife was lost.
After he stepped back, Mom took the cue, and touched Nana’s casket. “Bye, Mumma,” is what she said. I expected that to knock me over—the quiver in her voice—but it didn’t. I was just trying to remain normal, and to do the things I knew were socially acceptable at a burial. Stay still, quiet, and wait your turn.
And then it came.
Alone, I walked past the priest toward the lilac casket, placing my hand onto it as I knelt down. When my eyes closed, the sting of her selflessness bit me in the stomach. I remembered everything she’d ever done for me—the Christmases, birthdays—the way she’d delicately scratch my back for hours without ever asking for anything in return. I remembered the meals she made for me, and she couldn’t cook, but that didn’t matter. When you’re a kid in the 80’s, a cheeseburger from the microwave and a milkshake is about the most fantastic thing you can imagine. Greasy bread and cheese in my mouth, I’d listen to the radio while Nana would sing to me—Roy Orbison’s “You Got It.” She never really knew any of the lyrics, but she did stand behind the idea that anything I ever wanted or needed would be mine. And when Roy crooned “Baaaaaaaby,” to the angelic strumming of his Gibson guitar, I knew she loved me. If there was anything she thought I wanted, she’d do what it took.
That always included love, over all else.
But she was gone three years ago—maybe even long before then—dementia and all. Her brain had decayed, memories, vaporized. Last night’s dream was a message from her. Holding her there beneath my arm, she’d said something. “What was it?” I asked Lauren this morning over coffee, as if she’d have any clue.
“What did it sound like?” Lauren asked.
“I don’t know—something vitsu? Veno vitsu? What language is that?”
“Got me,” Lauren said. “Sounds Lithuanian.”
It wasn’t, but I listened to the words leaving my mouth and repeated them several times. After a dozen announcements of the phrase, I jumped on the Internet to translate the words as best I could. I searched every combination and spelling possible. After several minutes, a hit came back—something from Corsica.
Venu visu.
That was it. That’s what Nana had told me when I’d given her a kiss.
Come face to face.
Chills ran up my spine—I called Mom back and told her. We laughed a bit because the coincidences seemed almost too great, but the type that left your knees a bit weak. It’d been three years ago this week that she’d died. Her burial was today or tomorrow. My mother’s birthday had come up in the daily lottery the night prior—the same night Nana had come to me in a dream. She told me that she’d missed me, that she wanted to hold me.
Venu visu.
She’d never been an educated woman, never learned another language and, in the end, didn’t have enough cognitive ability to remember to eat. But I saw you last night, Nana. Walmart-blue vest or not, you looked great.
Now, in my waking place, a spot where writing happens, I remember a medical evaluation coming later today—a sit-down for 90 minutes in order to figure out a manner of which I may be helped. I will go, and I’ll listen to what the NP has to say. I want to be helped. But I’m here to tell you that there are other forces at work in this Universe.
Nana did not speak Corsican. I do not speak Corsican.
But it came from somewhere, nonetheless. I believe that was a place of love.
And I’m going to be all right today. I’m going to be all right going forward.
