I can’t remember how old I was when this happened. I just remember being young and wishing my parents were home to answer the phone.
Today was the day the neighborhood children were gathering for a momentous occasion - the first time swimming at Zack and Mackenzie’s new pool! The day was finally here and the weather could not have been better, even the morning tree frogs were humming with excitement.
My parents had left early in the morning to go kayaking with their friends. My older brother, Erik, was left in charge of my sister and I. He made us Eggo waffles for breakfast and made sure my sister and I had everything we needed before walking us down the street to the party. Before he left, he asked me: “What are you supposed to do in an emergency?”
Having rehearsed the response a number of times, I said quite impatiently, “Call dad’s cell phone first. If that doesn’t work, call Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop. If that doesn’t work, call Mrs. Ebert (our neighbor).”
After everything had been settled, he mounted his bike and took off. I remember waving to him as he rode his bike down our little dead-end street, speeding round the corner without stopping. Then, my best friend, Laura, appeared from Zack and Mackenzie’s backyard. She shouted, “Alex! Come on! We’ve been waiting for you so we can all jump in together!” And with that, my sister and I went running towards the moment we had been waiting months for— jumping into that new pool!
This day would be no different from any other Summer day, except that I had forgotten my sister’s swim goggles. My sister has an extremely rare disorder, which is not important to the story other than that she has cognitive impairments and thus can’t do some things like the rest of us. For example, blowing air out of your nose under water, which is why she needed her goggles. If she didn’t have those goggles on, she was guaranteed to inhale water and have a sneezing, coughing fit faster than any one of us could have said, “bless you.” So, after the long-awaited moment of jumping into the pool, holding hands with all of the friends I’ve known my whole life, I got back out of the pool and got my shoes on. I darted back to my home to retrieve the goggles.
In total, the trip should have taken me about five minutes. One minute to run down the street and get into the house, another 2-3 minutes to locate the goggles, and the final minute being spent running back down the street. In reality, the trip back for my sister’s dark purple swim goggles took about forty minutes.
The second I opened the door, I immediately saw my sister’s goggles hanging on the back of her chair at the dining room table. I stepped inside to retrieve them and as soon as my foot hit the floor, the phone rang. I panicked. I don’t normally answer the phone but no one else was here. Should I let it go to voicemail? I’ll just check who it is and go from there. The numbers flashing on the screen seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. Something within me told me to answer, so I did.
In short, the woman on the phone thought I was my mother, and proceeded to tell me:
"I’m calling because I have some bad news, your mother has just died."
“What?” I managed.
“I am so sorry for your loss, but Margaret just suddenly passed."
“No.” I spoke.
“I know, this news is very unexpected."
“No,” I said again, “This news is wrong. My grandmother’s name is Wilma."
After a second, “What?"
“I tried to say this isn’t Nancy. This is her daughter, Alex. My mom’s mom’s name is Wilma, not Margaret [,] so you must have the wrong number."
“Oh, I’m sorry. But this is the right number, Alex, your mom is listed as the emergency contact."
“That’s weird… Who just died?"
“Margaret, Margaret Reed just passed. She was just shy of 99 years old, do you know her?" The woman revealing the age made all the pieces of the puzzle come together in my head.
“Nanny. That’s my Nanny!” I started crying.
“I’m sorry you lost your babysitter, but are either of your parents home? You should give them the phone?"
“No, she’s not my babysitter. She’s my Nanny, my great grandma and I love her. What happened?” I continued to cry.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetie. She passed away naturally this morning, she wasn’t in pain. Now, can you put your parents on the phone?"
“No, I can’t they’re not there they’re kayaking. Why didn’t you call my grandma and grandpa first? My dad’s parents, they’re number is...My mom-mom and pop-pop should be taking this call since it’s her mom!"
“I’m sorry, your mom was listed as the emergency contact."
“Okay well, call my grandparents because I don’t know what to do.”
I hung up, fell to the floor and cried. Then I remembered my brother asking me what I’m supposed to do incase of an emergency. So, with a newfound sense of courage, I stood up and dialed my dad’s cell phone number. It rang for what felt like ages before going to voicemail.
“Dad? Uhh… the nursing home people called here and I only answered because the number looked familiar… Kristen forgot her goggles so I came back…She’s with Mrs. Higgins, everything is okay… Erik said to call you first in case of an emergency and so the emergency is that Nanny just died and they called here to tell you guys but you’re not here and I am so I answered and I don’t know what to do? Okay, bye.”
When I hung up the phone, it immediately started ringing again. This time, I recognized the number as my grandparents, my mom-mom and pop-pop. I spent about thirty minutes on the phone with my grandfather that day, who apologized for the mix up with the emergency contact numbers, comforted me, and asked if he and my grandma should come over to be with us. I told him to do whatever they needed to go to sort out getting my grandmother’s mom taken care of, and then to come pick us up from the pool party. I called my brother to tell him the news and he said he would be down to the pool party within a few minutes. I called my dad again, left another voicemail with the update, wiped my tears, and walked back down the street to the party, my sister’s goggles still hanging on the back of her chair.
My siblings and I spent the rest of the pool party sitting on the edge of the pool with only our feet dangling in. We couldn’t tell my sister what had happened, she wouldn’t understand. We just told her that our grandparents were coming to pick us up soon, so we couldn’t get too wet. This was the first family death that I was old enough to experience and remember. I asked Erik about funerals, wakes, cremation, death, life, Heaven, and many more things that day. I asked him what people do at funerals and wakes. He provided the typical responses, referencing a family funeral he had been too shortly after I was born. He told me people cry together, talk about why they loved the person who passed, and talk about all the good things they must be experiencing in Heaven right now.
The only funeral experience I had before was from when I was very young and encountered a dead bird in the backyard. I wrote something about the bird to remember it by and read the piece at its bird funeral. I remember the words I had created touched my mother so much. In the moment my feet were dangling in the pool and the summer sounds and smell of sweat salted the air, I decided I would write my first non-academic (not assigned in school) poem.
Writing has always been an area where I feel I am most creative. I struggle more with academic writing, like this, but find that writing comes naturally when writing: stories, flash fictions, poems, vignettes, love letters, birthday cards, and even the two novels I wrote in high school for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It is with academic writing that I am more critical of myself. I point this out because this assignment asked me to reflect on my life experience with “the critical and the creative” and I find it an interesting dichotomy that for me, writing is both. Besides writing an acrostic poem that spelled my name every year in school, I had no poetry writing experience. The only poetry I knew at this age was the simple, childlike kind that rhymed and told tales of silly, fun times. When I got home that day, I started writing.
I found my creative space was upstairs, in the room I shared with my sister, far away from all the tears, phone calls, and funeral arrangements. I retreated to my safe space and processed life events and my feelings in a new way, writing. I had no form, no rhyme, no meter, no iambic pentameter, no symbols, no stanzas, no structure. It wasn’t until later in life that I was able to connect a name to this method, “free writing” and in a poetry form aptly called, “free form.”
Simply, I had a lined piece of paper I tore from my brother’s Biology notebook and a pencil I stole from my dad’s desk. Those basic tools are still the ones I turn to in moments where words fill my body and I just have to let them out onto the page. And, I had a secret. No one knew I had written anything, no one knew that come funeral day, I was prepared to speak.
On the day of the funeral, many of the adults in my family spoke, friends of my Nanny shared tearful stories of laughs and memories they shared. I knew my dad was going to be the last to speak, since he was going to direct everyone to the house where we would all gather after. As he thanked everyone for coming and walked away from the podium at the front of the room, I stood up. Everyone watched in silence as the little strawberry-blonde in a new black dress walked towards the open casket. I stood on my tippy-toes to lean into the casket and place a kiss on my Nanny’s head. The room was so quiet everyone heard me whisper, “I love you, Nanny, I hope you like what I wrote for you.”
It came as quite the shock to the family and friends gathered in the funeral home when my mouth opened and my cracked voice started reading the words I had written on the now folded, smudged, and tear-stained page. My words were sweet, hopeful, and instilled my childish innocence into all those who heard. I remember looking out and seeing all the faces in front of me, both familiar and unfamiliar, smiling.
Often, I think back to that moment as the pinnacle of my creative life, not because of the content of my poem, but because of the content of my character. I was brave, confident, open, and honest about myself. I stood in front of a family who hides their emotions and let mine flow out of me. My fearlessness was there for me in my greatest time of need as a child, and it resurfaced recently when I needed most it as a young adult. In order to tell my family I was in a committed relationship with a woman, I once again used my favorite tools - paper and pencil.
I used to think the phone call wasn’t for me, that my parents or my brother should’ve been home, or that the nursing home should’ve called my grandparents first. I used to think the phone call was meant for older ears. But, now, as I’ve gotten older through the years, I've realized life has it’s own unexpected, funny, but sometimes cruel, way of helping you develop as a person. Forgotten goggles or not, I’m glad I ran home and answered the phone. Now, in life, in death, in happiness, in sorrow, in anything I feel or think but can’t verbally articulate, I find a blank space and fill it with words, images, thoughts, and feelings.
It is then I find, I’m a master of my own healing.
Today was the day the neighborhood children were gathering for a momentous occasion - the first time swimming at Zack and Mackenzie’s new pool! The day was finally here and the weather could not have been better, even the morning tree frogs were humming with excitement.
My parents had left early in the morning to go kayaking with their friends. My older brother, Erik, was left in charge of my sister and I. He made us Eggo waffles for breakfast and made sure my sister and I had everything we needed before walking us down the street to the party. Before he left, he asked me: “What are you supposed to do in an emergency?”
Having rehearsed the response a number of times, I said quite impatiently, “Call dad’s cell phone first. If that doesn’t work, call Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop. If that doesn’t work, call Mrs. Ebert (our neighbor).”
After everything had been settled, he mounted his bike and took off. I remember waving to him as he rode his bike down our little dead-end street, speeding round the corner without stopping. Then, my best friend, Laura, appeared from Zack and Mackenzie’s backyard. She shouted, “Alex! Come on! We’ve been waiting for you so we can all jump in together!” And with that, my sister and I went running towards the moment we had been waiting months for— jumping into that new pool!
This day would be no different from any other Summer day, except that I had forgotten my sister’s swim goggles. My sister has an extremely rare disorder, which is not important to the story other than that she has cognitive impairments and thus can’t do some things like the rest of us. For example, blowing air out of your nose under water, which is why she needed her goggles. If she didn’t have those goggles on, she was guaranteed to inhale water and have a sneezing, coughing fit faster than any one of us could have said, “bless you.” So, after the long-awaited moment of jumping into the pool, holding hands with all of the friends I’ve known my whole life, I got back out of the pool and got my shoes on. I darted back to my home to retrieve the goggles.
In total, the trip should have taken me about five minutes. One minute to run down the street and get into the house, another 2-3 minutes to locate the goggles, and the final minute being spent running back down the street. In reality, the trip back for my sister’s dark purple swim goggles took about forty minutes.
The second I opened the door, I immediately saw my sister’s goggles hanging on the back of her chair at the dining room table. I stepped inside to retrieve them and as soon as my foot hit the floor, the phone rang. I panicked. I don’t normally answer the phone but no one else was here. Should I let it go to voicemail? I’ll just check who it is and go from there. The numbers flashing on the screen seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. Something within me told me to answer, so I did.
In short, the woman on the phone thought I was my mother, and proceeded to tell me:
"I’m calling because I have some bad news, your mother has just died."
“What?” I managed.
“I am so sorry for your loss, but Margaret just suddenly passed."
“No.” I spoke.
“I know, this news is very unexpected."
“No,” I said again, “This news is wrong. My grandmother’s name is Wilma."
After a second, “What?"
“I tried to say this isn’t Nancy. This is her daughter, Alex. My mom’s mom’s name is Wilma, not Margaret [,] so you must have the wrong number."
“Oh, I’m sorry. But this is the right number, Alex, your mom is listed as the emergency contact."
“That’s weird… Who just died?"
“Margaret, Margaret Reed just passed. She was just shy of 99 years old, do you know her?" The woman revealing the age made all the pieces of the puzzle come together in my head.
“Nanny. That’s my Nanny!” I started crying.
“I’m sorry you lost your babysitter, but are either of your parents home? You should give them the phone?"
“No, she’s not my babysitter. She’s my Nanny, my great grandma and I love her. What happened?” I continued to cry.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetie. She passed away naturally this morning, she wasn’t in pain. Now, can you put your parents on the phone?"
“No, I can’t they’re not there they’re kayaking. Why didn’t you call my grandma and grandpa first? My dad’s parents, they’re number is...My mom-mom and pop-pop should be taking this call since it’s her mom!"
“I’m sorry, your mom was listed as the emergency contact."
“Okay well, call my grandparents because I don’t know what to do.”
I hung up, fell to the floor and cried. Then I remembered my brother asking me what I’m supposed to do incase of an emergency. So, with a newfound sense of courage, I stood up and dialed my dad’s cell phone number. It rang for what felt like ages before going to voicemail.
“Dad? Uhh… the nursing home people called here and I only answered because the number looked familiar… Kristen forgot her goggles so I came back…She’s with Mrs. Higgins, everything is okay… Erik said to call you first in case of an emergency and so the emergency is that Nanny just died and they called here to tell you guys but you’re not here and I am so I answered and I don’t know what to do? Okay, bye.”
When I hung up the phone, it immediately started ringing again. This time, I recognized the number as my grandparents, my mom-mom and pop-pop. I spent about thirty minutes on the phone with my grandfather that day, who apologized for the mix up with the emergency contact numbers, comforted me, and asked if he and my grandma should come over to be with us. I told him to do whatever they needed to go to sort out getting my grandmother’s mom taken care of, and then to come pick us up from the pool party. I called my brother to tell him the news and he said he would be down to the pool party within a few minutes. I called my dad again, left another voicemail with the update, wiped my tears, and walked back down the street to the party, my sister’s goggles still hanging on the back of her chair.
My siblings and I spent the rest of the pool party sitting on the edge of the pool with only our feet dangling in. We couldn’t tell my sister what had happened, she wouldn’t understand. We just told her that our grandparents were coming to pick us up soon, so we couldn’t get too wet. This was the first family death that I was old enough to experience and remember. I asked Erik about funerals, wakes, cremation, death, life, Heaven, and many more things that day. I asked him what people do at funerals and wakes. He provided the typical responses, referencing a family funeral he had been too shortly after I was born. He told me people cry together, talk about why they loved the person who passed, and talk about all the good things they must be experiencing in Heaven right now.
The only funeral experience I had before was from when I was very young and encountered a dead bird in the backyard. I wrote something about the bird to remember it by and read the piece at its bird funeral. I remember the words I had created touched my mother so much. In the moment my feet were dangling in the pool and the summer sounds and smell of sweat salted the air, I decided I would write my first non-academic (not assigned in school) poem.
Writing has always been an area where I feel I am most creative. I struggle more with academic writing, like this, but find that writing comes naturally when writing: stories, flash fictions, poems, vignettes, love letters, birthday cards, and even the two novels I wrote in high school for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It is with academic writing that I am more critical of myself. I point this out because this assignment asked me to reflect on my life experience with “the critical and the creative” and I find it an interesting dichotomy that for me, writing is both. Besides writing an acrostic poem that spelled my name every year in school, I had no poetry writing experience. The only poetry I knew at this age was the simple, childlike kind that rhymed and told tales of silly, fun times. When I got home that day, I started writing.
I found my creative space was upstairs, in the room I shared with my sister, far away from all the tears, phone calls, and funeral arrangements. I retreated to my safe space and processed life events and my feelings in a new way, writing. I had no form, no rhyme, no meter, no iambic pentameter, no symbols, no stanzas, no structure. It wasn’t until later in life that I was able to connect a name to this method, “free writing” and in a poetry form aptly called, “free form.”
Simply, I had a lined piece of paper I tore from my brother’s Biology notebook and a pencil I stole from my dad’s desk. Those basic tools are still the ones I turn to in moments where words fill my body and I just have to let them out onto the page. And, I had a secret. No one knew I had written anything, no one knew that come funeral day, I was prepared to speak.
On the day of the funeral, many of the adults in my family spoke, friends of my Nanny shared tearful stories of laughs and memories they shared. I knew my dad was going to be the last to speak, since he was going to direct everyone to the house where we would all gather after. As he thanked everyone for coming and walked away from the podium at the front of the room, I stood up. Everyone watched in silence as the little strawberry-blonde in a new black dress walked towards the open casket. I stood on my tippy-toes to lean into the casket and place a kiss on my Nanny’s head. The room was so quiet everyone heard me whisper, “I love you, Nanny, I hope you like what I wrote for you.”
It came as quite the shock to the family and friends gathered in the funeral home when my mouth opened and my cracked voice started reading the words I had written on the now folded, smudged, and tear-stained page. My words were sweet, hopeful, and instilled my childish innocence into all those who heard. I remember looking out and seeing all the faces in front of me, both familiar and unfamiliar, smiling.
Often, I think back to that moment as the pinnacle of my creative life, not because of the content of my poem, but because of the content of my character. I was brave, confident, open, and honest about myself. I stood in front of a family who hides their emotions and let mine flow out of me. My fearlessness was there for me in my greatest time of need as a child, and it resurfaced recently when I needed most it as a young adult. In order to tell my family I was in a committed relationship with a woman, I once again used my favorite tools - paper and pencil.
I used to think the phone call wasn’t for me, that my parents or my brother should’ve been home, or that the nursing home should’ve called my grandparents first. I used to think the phone call was meant for older ears. But, now, as I’ve gotten older through the years, I've realized life has it’s own unexpected, funny, but sometimes cruel, way of helping you develop as a person. Forgotten goggles or not, I’m glad I ran home and answered the phone. Now, in life, in death, in happiness, in sorrow, in anything I feel or think but can’t verbally articulate, I find a blank space and fill it with words, images, thoughts, and feelings.
It is then I find, I’m a master of my own healing.