Embracing Emma (Companion to Brisé) (38 page)

Our quirks, our lives, our love; it’s all our own, and we make no apologies. “Daddy,” our two-year-old son, Damon, shouts. “Watch me.” This is never good.

See what I said regarding tradition? Fuck it. Make your own path. Burn a lane where you want to walk. Do it with pride, morals . . . do it for love. It may not heal all, but it sure makes the suffering worth it.

Note to reader:

(Warning- this is long)

Months ago I struggled with this story. Emma kept telling me she wanted a story, she knew her love, she knew her strengths, she knew her weaknesses. What I didn’t bargain for was Nana. In my mind, Nana was never part of this story. I put off Emma’s story. I put off a lot in my life.

I still had the passion to write, the love for the story. I lacked the ability to create, the capacity to sit down and lose myself in words. That’s the only way I know to write; let the voices take over. I couldn’t do that because I had lost myself somewhere in the past two years.

I quieted my voice, and therefore the others wouldn’t shine through. It’s been almost two years since I lost my grandmother, and ten months prior to that I lost my grandfather. I didn’t deal. I allowed my need to take care of others, my snarkiness and humor to mask what was inside.

The relationship I had with my grandfather was in-your-face. Our banter, our passion, our voices were always battling, and it was one hell of a ride. I mourned and grieved for him . . . I dealt with him being gone. It was his time, and he was ready. I had my closure. While he will forever be in my heart, a void never filled, I understand.

My grandmother. She was my mentor. My champion. I strived to emulate her my entire life. It was her guidance, her strength, and her love that made me who I am. When Nana spoke in this story, it threw me for a loop. When I typed the word Alzheimer’s, I got up and walked away from my desk. I couldn’t do this. I refused to open this wound. I knew what I was doing, admitted to myself I was hiding . . . I came to terms with it. The rest of my life didn’t. Days of not writing turned into weeks. Into months. That allowed me time to dwell, to reminisce, to be angry, to confront what I hadn’t.

I didn’t deal. I couldn’t function. I was lost. I was angry. I was hurt. I needed her.

This story allowed me to share her with all of you, and in turn, with myself. I focused so much on taking care of her, doing what I needed to do that I forgot to see her. To hear her. I was that girl who felt the obligation because each visit, each trip to her home was a gift and a curse. I was lucky she was still here . . . but was she really? I would catch glimpses of her, but they were fleeting, and the more I tried to hold on to those, the faster they would evolve into the tantrum and lashing out.

Yes, I was the cult leader who kidnapped her.

Yes, I was the ‘dear friend’ visiting her.

Yes, I was lost to her as she was lost to all of us.

You can’t compete or prepare for that. IT HURTS. All I could do is show up, listen to her rants, her stories, hold her hand when she let me, and then allow my past with her to flood my head, never reaching my heart. Because it was broken. One day she patted my cheek, something she had always done as a loving gesture, and a moment came back to me.

I was a new mom, struggling, tired, and totally fucking clueless how I sustained my life as long as I did, and now I was responsible for another—I would go over to their house daily and hang out. This was before Alzheimer’s reared its ugly head. So my son had spit up all over the FIVE outfits I packed, was cranky, wouldn’t nap, didn’t want to be held, but didn’t want to be put down. I was about to lose my mind. She came over, swooped him up, rocked him for a few minutes as she hummed to him, fed him his bottle (which he drank and never spit up) burped him, and he fell asleep in her arms. She got up, went to the kitchen, and went about her business . . . all while cradling my sleeping child. What? How?

I followed her, determined to get answers. When I let my exasperation out with tears running down my cheeks, she chucked the flour into the bowl . . . because she was preparing a homemade, from scratch cake, while also preparing meat, baked apples, and green beans (fresh). Rolls were rising on her cutting board. Don’t forget the cheese and apples she would slice for my granddad’s snack. She walked over to me, patted my cheek, and let out a chuckle. I lost it. I’m not proud of that moment, but it’s one I learned from. I shouted at her. “It’s not funny!”

She turned to me with her eyes narrowed. First, I shouted at her. That was a no go. Second, she was holding my sleeping child. No way I wanted him awake. “I never said it was funny. I was trying to show you it’s the ending that matters. He’s fussy today. Tomorrow he’s going to be going off to college. But today he’s here. And in a few hours so will your husband, sister, and niece. I have a meal to prepare because at the end of the day that’s what I can do. I can look at what love created. My family under my roof, healthy and happy.”

That’s all I can do. Remember her; embrace her lessons, live to make her proud. I can admit for a while I know I wasn’t. Now, I am. I still struggle with her being gone, and even with this disease, you lose them over and over. They are still here.

So I embrace those times I sat for hours watching the real estate channel and listening to her prepare for the test she was waiting on.

I embrace the times she looked through me because at one point in life I was all she looked at.

I embrace being a cult leader, a friend from out of town, or whoever I was that day.

I also get to embrace the day before she went to sleep and never woke up; she called me by my name . . . something she hadn’t done in years.

I’ll embrace every facet I got from her and of her because in the end I know she embraced me as much as I did her.

I thank you for bearing with me in this book. This book to me represents love. In every form. Romantic, healing, family, forgiveness. It represents growth. It represents pain. But it also represents healing.

All I can leave with you is this—if you encounter this disease in your life, EMBRACE IT. Find the humor when you think there is none. Answer the questions asked over and over. Fight the anger, and know it’s not their fault. It’s not your fault. Don’t fight what’s happening, it will progress regardless. Don’t make them feel less because they are just as lost as you, more so because you know what’s happening, they don’t. Most of all…love them. Love them no matter what side they are showing you. It’s not always pretty, but in the end, the reward is never ending.

~ Leigh Ann

Acknowledgements

Thank you to you . . . the reader. Without your support I’d have no idea if I sucked balls at this thing called writing. I appreciate every note, message, gift – it means the world.

Usually I have one person who inspired me, pushed me to finish a book. This one . . . I didn’t. A lot changed in my life while writing this and I knew I had to push myself, I had to make myself whole and get back to the person I was; a person I liked.

My reader group and betas – THANK YOU!

Playlist

First Love Song – Luke Bryan

My World – Blaire Hanks

Lost in this Moment – Big & Rich

Suit and Tie – Justin Timberlake

Dibs – Kelsea Ballerini

Tonight’s the Night – Blaire Hanks

** I listened to Blaire Hanks on repeat for most of this – check him out **