1919 until forever

That life worth living.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve written an entry, although there certainly has been no shortage of topics to blog about. I worked 31 straight days in Wyoming, my cousin John got married, I found myself in LA for two games of the National League Championship Series, a co-worker was deported (kind of, more like not let back in), and I shouted to Delonte West from behind the Cavs bench during a game in Detroit.
Good shit, right? For sure, but even I can stop strutting my decadence, peer through my hubris shaded glasses (yeah right, I don’t wear glasses, my vision is beyond perfect [ok, I’m disproving my own postulate with this digression]) and recognize an opportunity for some reflection when reflecting is what really needs to be done.

My grandma turned 90 at midnight, about two hours ago (12-9-2009). She’s not going to make it through another day. So I’m at my mom’s crib, drinking coffee and trying to crack the jokes that are only attempted during such dire times, with the Saint Ada DiLoreto Hagan in the next room over, in the finality of a coma, her final breaths assisted by machines and her discomfort muted by morphine.

All 14 of her kids are here or within a couple of blocks, taking turns comforting each other, sitting by her, crying, laughing, and just kind of being here. No one quite knows what to say, and the notion of dramatic bedside profundity was put to sleep hours ago. We’re just here, a family, and grandma or mom is dying.

Grandparents, at their utopian core, are sweet. They’re wise, open, and compassionate. I understand every family dynamic is different, but I know that my grandparents were two of the most remarkable people ever to grace this planet. I know mine were extraordinarily important to me because of a lot of factors. And I know that I don’t know jack shit about dealing with this death.

And trust me, I can take a shot. Grow up without a dad, get dumped after buying your girlfriend a $126,500 gift, spend seven years with a soulless mentor at work, wake up to a friend dead in bed with you after overdosing, and chug a glass of vinegar that you think is bottled water after playing hoops—that’s my narrative. And I wouldn’t trade any of it, other than the vinegar chugging part (which was a total accident). While I don’t believe in many things, I do believe that life experiences define us. And these are mine. The bad ones. The good ones swing the arc of the pendulum even higher on the other side, so I’m not complaining.

But I can’t stand to see the tears of my mom, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins right now. Watching someone die sucks. Watching my grandmother, the matriarch of the most influential family I’ve ever been a part of (blame my penchant for going boastful on paternal genetics, my friends, or rap music—but not Saint Ada, she had rooms full of humility... and hair curlers) die is surreal. Now what do we do? She was our common bond, holding the teachers, grad students, and rogue-ass businessmen laborers (wink) together.

Although it’s impossible to consider my humongous, dysfunctional family unit without its ROCK, it’s now all of our reality. And even though I’ve never been one to espouse the concept of trickle down economics (and neither was Ada!), I’m gonna believe in trickle down compassion, trickle down wisdom, and trickle down love. Because if I get just a little of that sugar, I’ll be plenty sweet enough to get by.

I love you Grandma Ada.