On Dying
Keena P. Day
Candied Yams. Greens and Ham Hocks. Turkey and Dressing. Crab Legs. Gumbo……
There weren’t many days you could walk into my Gaga’s house and some tasty smells weren’t
permeating throughout her home. A tall, bronze woman from the gulf who could cook anything to
perfection describes the woman I loved. In addition to her culinary prowess, she was down-home
in the sense that she also had a southern remedy for any ailment you had.
Gaga was my grandmother. I use that term loosely; Gaga was not my blood grandmother.
She was the mother of my stepfather. However, she loved me as if she held my mother’s hand
during childbirth. I also say that because as unique as the name Gaga, that is the person she was.
The name grandma suggest a loving, cookie-baking person who gave kisses and tucked
you in at night. Perhaps she was the one who gave you (if you were a girl), your first set of pearls
and taught you what it meant to be a lady. In that sense, my Gaga did that; she loved beautiful
things. Many days you could find her and my grandfather (aptly named Papa) sitting on the porch
enjoying her garden. She loved her garden and took great pride in its beauty. The smell of the
garden immediately entranced you when you walked to greet them on their porch. Roses, tulips,
petunias; the most beautiful and cherished flowers on Earth were in her garden. I remember her
frowning when cold weather would come, but somehow, in Detroit, in the midst of the worst
snows and freezes ever, that garden managed to grow every Spring. She also loved pearls.
Especially pearls that had different hues to them rather than just white. Lastly, she adored china
and fine porcelin. During holidays, we would polish her silver and eat her beautifully prepared
food on her fine china plates and flowing tablecloths. Yes Gaga loved the beautiful things in life.
Yes, many people with grandmas can identify with this picture. However, that is as far as
Gaga can be compared to a grandmother. In fact, any opposite ideas you can think of may best
describe her. If you had company who didn’t know any better, many a day you could hear,
“Nigga, if you step on my flowers, I’mma pop your ass.”
My Gaga was a sailor-cursing, gun toting, cigarette smoking woman who kept people in
check with her jokes. One of her favorite targets was my Uncle Carmi, who at one time weighed
600 lbs. Anytime he came into town, be it funeral or reunion, we knew a roast fest would
commence: “Nigga, how many eggs a day do you eat? America should open a chicken farm
specifically for your ass.”
Or
“Nigga, I forgot to kill a pig this morning, Go easy on the bacon so the rest of America can eat.”
Gaga would sit at her kitchen table, smoking her Newport cigarette, looking at her freshly
manicured nails and just wait to rip somebody open.
Lord, and don’t let her girls, as she called my sisters, cousin and me, get in trouble. We were not
spared from the wrath of her diction at all. Once, my cousin Keisha and I got the bright idea to
dig up dirt in her backyard in our swimsuits and give each other mud baths because Keisha heard
it would help our skin. When we realized it didn’t work and we had mud puddles all in her
backyard around her garden, we knew that was it. Just as we began running back and forth in the
house trying to get water to fix the mud puddles, we heard Gag’s booming voice thunder from the
heavens: “Did you Negro children just track mud in my house?”
Whenever she referred to us as Negro children we knew what would come next: “GO GET A
SWITCH.”
A switch. Gaga’s full-proof answer to discipline in America. And magically, it worked better than
a belt.
You never knew what would come out of her mouth and when. All you knew was to not wear
shoes on her carpet and that you were gonna leave her house smelling like you smoked 6 packs of
cigarettes.
And family gatherings. They were always at her house. Our family would sit for hours on hours
on hours eating Gaga’s food and laughing at her jokes. But anytime we went passed midnight:
Pop. Pop. Pop. And then Gag’s voice: “You niggas ain’t got to go home but you can’t stay here.”
Fooling with Gaga, you never knew WHEN you’d hear Gunshots. You just knew she meant
business.
I can never forget that never ending war with Mr. Carr and those dogs. It could be the middle of
the night….
Pop. Pop. Pop. “Carr tell those nigga dogs of yours to shut the hell up before I put some led in
they ass.”
It didn’t happen often. However, when it did happen, it sounded like the war in Iraq. One time we
were up all night with her and Carr popping bullets through the windows into the air. We all hid
on the floor and ducked.
We all adored Gaga. And she adored us right back. She wasn’t a touchy feely kinda woman, and
she rarely gave kisses, but she showed her love to us through her teasing, and how she cared for
us. However, nothing meant more to her than Papa. They met in high school, went to prom
together, and were inseparable to the day Papa died. And during that long, slow, painful death he
endured because of a spider bite, she was right there next to him; sneaking him food he wasn’t
supposed to have, rubbing his feet and spending weeks in the hospital to sleep by his side. When
he was amputated, she had ramps built and gave him baths when he could no longer bathe
himself. All this, while having to check her own sugar levels by pricking her finger three times a
day because of diabetes. Never a complaint. In all actuality, it bothered us more than it bothered
her.
But once Papa took his last breath, simultaneously, the very soul of her died. During his burial,
she was valiant as ever, keeping the family together and showing us what real strength was made
of. Her outer shell exuded strength; however nothing prepared us for the slow deterioration that
occurred after his burial. For a long time, she would cook Papa’s favorite food and cook way too
much that sat for days with nobody to eat it. Or sit in a house full of food, yet eat nothing.
She smiled less. She certainly didn’t wise crack.
And then lung cancer came. I remember finally seeing weakness in her for the 1st time ever. The
last little fight (which doctors call Chemotherapy) she could have had sucked up my Gaga and
morphed her into a shriveled up, speechless prune; a caricature of the once strong, vibrant woman
we all stood in awe of. Weakness showed itself in the sense that she decided then NOT to fight.
She didn’t eat. She wouldn’t follow the doctor’s orders. She even stopped checking her blood
sugar. My family then began to worry; they did everything they could to keep her here with us. I
think they may have been in denial to reality--- Gaga died with Papa. NOBODY wanted to accept
that fact. However, I remember the exact moment I accepted the fact that she had already been
dead. It was the last time I saw her breathing.
My husband and I had come to visit. She was finishing chemotherapy and was at home resting.
By that time, my family split their time so somebody could always be with her to make sure she’d
eat. A chocolate brown, wrinkled, bald woman answered the door. While I questioned the identity
of this stranger, I saw her face light up- which was that familiar smile I grew to adore. She had no
teeth. My children were afraid of her. We sat down and began to chit chat, as was customary. Her
voice was raspy but nothing more than a whisper. Just when we began talking about our recent
move (me living in Nashville and my husband commuting from Memphis), she looked at me and
said, “What do you mean HE moved to Memphis?” and was about to give me a severe tongue
lashing for allowing my husband to move without me, the phone rang. She came back and had
forgotten what she was talking about! We decided to leave her to rest and I walked outside; the
very worse that I could’ve ever dreamed came to a culmination when I looked at her garden--her
flowers were dying.
Metaphorically, she too was dead. Chemotherapy just poisoned and defiled what was left.
I think we just were trying to keep her here for us, but she was just waiting for the moment God
decided it was time for her and Papa to be together again for eternity. Loosing Papa was hard,
but loosing her was the hardest thing ever. In fact, two years later, that void still goes deep; a
wide, gaping space that Gaga filled for us is just empty. For a long while, I was mad at her for not
fighting. How could this courageous, strong-willed, vibrant, woman no longer wish to live? They
caught the cancer early….if there was any will to fight, she could’ve. But now I understand why
she didn’t. What good are you on Earth physically, if your soul is fighting to be with its mate
elsewhere?
She could no longer live for us, when in death she would be happiest.
Gaga showed me how a person is to love during their days. And how, no matter how strong or
valiant you are, when your true love is taken, why you suddenly die too. I now understand that
when you are love and that is your existence, there is nothing left to help you sustain. Because
without your love literally, figuratively, you don’t exist.