A little over a month ago, my mom called to tell me my grandmother was in the hospital. She was admitted just a day or two before her birthday, February 13th. I called that her day, and when I got off the phone I told my mom she didn’t sound like herself. Her voice was weird, and she was asking me questions about things that had never happened.

We went to visit her that weekend and she seemed somewhat more together, but things still weren’t right. 

About a week later, I woke up in the middle of the night in tears, very shaken by a vivid dream. In the dream my father had suddenly passed away. I couldn’t remember the exact cause, but it was quick and it happened naturally. For about 3 or 4 days I couldn’t shake the dream, partly for the obvious reason, but also because deep down I knew it meant something else.  One night, February 26th to be exact, I sat at my computer and started to write, determined to work out what it was that was bothering me.  On to the pages spilled this:

My grandmother isn’t doing well right now. She’s in her early 80s, and her health has always been shaky, but currently her mind is what’s taken a turn for the worse. Though she doesn’t suffer from dementia, she has been in an unexplained delusional state for almost two weeks now. She’s angry, disoriented, and not showing any signs of significant improvement despite hospitalization and rehab.  

Grandma hasn’t been happy since Grandpa died almost 20 years ago. He was only in his late 60s at the time, and she being a few years younger was widowed at an early age. Unlike my mom’s parents, who always held very active and independent social lives, my grandfather and her sons were her entire world. To be honest, I don’t think she’s been happy to be alive since the day he took his last breath.

The other night I had a dream my father passed away. I can’t tell you exactly how, or what led up to it, but I can tell you I woke up in the middle of the night in tears, and haven’t been able to shake that feeling since. I have this gut-wrenching feeling it’s somehow tied to my grandmother’s state, and for some reason I also think it’s connected to the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. (He died in March 1993.)

Do you know what thought crossed my mind today, as that wave of fear engulfed and choked me on the train ride home? I thought to myself, my grandmother may never live to see me in love. She’ll never know the person I end up marrying. She’ll never see my wedding dress, or witness what I looked like on the day that was essentially one of the only things she has lived for.  

Sure, we’ve talked about my travels, and my many careers. We’ve had heart to hearts about boys, and about dating, and every now and then I’d have a name to offer her of some guy that turned my head or touched my heart. But I may never see the look of joy on her face when she meets the man who finally knew me, and loved me still. As her only granddaughter, I was the sole source through which she lived vicariously. Though I know she is proud of everything I’ve done, and admired my courage for it, I also know she’s felt sadness in the lonely course my life has taken.  I feel almost ashamed, though I know I can’t control how things turned out, and that for whatever reason the time hasn’t come for that part of my life to begin. 

But tonight, that’s what I’m afraid of.

The day after I wrote that I confided in a few friends that I thought she might die in March. The very next morning, my mother texted me to tell me Grandma had been rushed back to the ER.

My grandmother passed away this past Tuesday, March 19th. It was exactly 20 years and 7 days after my grandfather’s death. Her doctors said physically she had been doing well. According to my parents, she was mentally in good spirits this weekend, and they all had hope she had made the turn. I went to visit her on March 3rd, just a few days before my book release. Everyone was telling me how much better she was doing, but when I looked in her eyes I knew. She couldn’t speak, because of the breathing tube, but when I leaned over to talk to her I said, “Listen, I’m not getting married any time in the near future. So you better get your shit together.” She laughed… I guess at that point we both knew.

Today, on my plane ride home from Texas, I’ll be working on her eulogy. How I’m going to sum up the love and memories I’ve cherished for 31 years, I still don’t know. Nothing prepares you for death, no matter how much you are expecting it.

There’s an old Italian proverb that goes, “If nothing is going well, call your grandmother.” Grandma, I will miss our phone calls more than you’ll ever know.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a slight obsession with all things vintage. Clothes, books, typewriters… If it has a story, if it’s existed in just one person’s hands before mine, I want to collect it and bring it on my journey.

So when I saw this gem in my friend Diana’s apartment the other night, I had to know what it was and where it came from.

This is a record player/record cutter from 1939. The handle on the left plays the actual record, and the other “cuts” the grooves into the plastic disc being recorded. It was used by soldiers in World War II who would record messages that they could then send home to their loved ones.

Such an interesting tidbit, as I pictured the only form of communication during the war to be “Dear John” letters. It made me think about how we communicate today… how conversation is becoming a lost art, and how rare it is to really know the sound of a person’s voice.

Imagine for a moment it’s 1940 and the person you love most in the world is overseas fighting in WWII. You’ve received a few letters, with updates on their thoughts and whereabouts. Then one day this record arrives by post. You open it and excitedly place it on your record player. Suddenly, the room is filled with the voice you’ve been longing to hear. It’s your favorite sound in the world. That’s powerful.

Think of all the things you miss when you text, e-mail, G-chat, Facebook, tweet, etc. You miss the sound of laughter. The excited squeal of good news, and the devastation in loss and mourning. You never learn how to hear a smile, or catch the quiver that comes right before the tears. Sarcasm reads as dismissiveness, excitement reads as sarcasm, and sometimes every single word has been abbreviated to form a string of nonsensical letters, requiring the cracking of a secret code or mysterious algorithm just to know what the hell is being said… usually to find out it wasn’t worth the trouble of figuring it out in the first place. 

In missing all of those things, we often miss each other. We hide behind letters, texts and e-mails to avoid that element of human contact… the part that makes it real. We take for granted that people will always be there, and we’ll catch up with them, eventually.

So the next time you are thinking about someone, and just want to let them know, pick up the phone. Send a video. (Keep it clean though, you never know who will get their hands on it.) And after you talk, listen. Listen for the smile. I promise, it’s better than any Emoji you’ll ever find in your iPhone, or any :) at the end of an e-mail.

Try things the “old-fashioned way”… and see how that changes your story.

It’s hard to believe that just a year ago I moved into my first studio apartment in Manhattan.  For those that know me, the first two months of living and adjusting to the poorly kept and slightly chaotic space led to quite an accumulation of stories and tales, ones that will live on long after I continue my travels beyond the Hudson River.  In honor of one era ending and the beginning of yet another brand new adventure, I’ve compiled a list of my infamous love/hate relationship with D3.

Here’s to the memories… at least some of my favorites.

1.  Discovering a dead mouse, amongst other things, the day I moved in.  Discovering a live one in the months that followed.  I will never forget the night I woke up to him crawling up my window, right next to my bed.  Way to invade my personal space Mickey.

2.  Building, painting, and decorating a 13’ x 8’ space and making it feel like home.  I particularly loved painting the vines that surrounded my archway, and finding ways to make storage items look pretty.  Thank God for Pier One, the Container Store, Target, Home Depot and Bed, Bath and Beyond.  It truly takes a village.

3.  Waking up every morning to the big tree outside my window.  Especially when I woke up early enough to catch the morning light… a golden glow that illuminated the fire escape as the sun came up.  It was a rare moment of peace.

4.  Living in a fourth floor walk-up.  Great for the ass, a nightmare when moving. Or when you would get to the bottom of the steps and realize you forgot something upstairs.

5.  Grey Dog. And Grey Dog chocolate chips cookies.  Right. Next. Door.

6.  Daily walks to Hudson River Park, laying out and lunching in the circle park, and regular trips to Red Mango.

7.  My writing desk.  A place where I sat staring blankly at times… and typing madly and furiously at other times.  It was my jumping off point to many ideas, pieces, and aspirations… I hope the next time I come back to it, I will be sitting down to write from an even more inspired and successful place.

8.  The kitchen.  I must address the kitchen, with it’s gaping hole in the ceiling and 50 year old confectioners oven (which I insisted be removed for health reasons- I’m pretty sure it had a gas leak). My kitchen window faced my chain-smoking neighbors apartment, and each puff she took would blow directly into the 2x4’ space, filling my nose with the stale scent each time I went to get a glass of water.  It had two little white doors that opened to about 4 tiles, a sink, a mini-fridge (that broke the last month I lived there) and a stove top.  I made many delicious egg white omelettes in that little cell.  It was the most “New York” thing about that place… hands down.

9.  The musical serenade from my next door neighbor.  I always knew what kind of mood he was in… For example, in the first few months he was going through a break up.  I deducted this (the slick detective that I am) because his daily playlist consisted of three Justin Timberlake songs: “What Goes Around Comes Around,” “Cry Me a River,” and “Another Song All Over Again.”  After about a month of this, he moved on to Judy Garland.  Just one particular song.  Also on repeat.  Then came the rebound phase.  The soundtrack to that? Lady Gaga. Obviously.  Last I heard he was blasted techno dance music at 8am.  Glad to see he’s moved on.

10.  The neighborhood.  What a wonderful spot to immerse yourself in and learn to navigate the city.  I spent many nights walking home from the LES and Greenwich Village, taking in the quiet moments on the city streets, discovering architecture, and spending quality time with my iPod.  I could be at a venue in 10 minutes, BK in 15 minutes, uptown in 20 minutes, and Jersey in a half hour.  You just can’t beat that.  

The memories. For better or worse, that apartment took me through one of the biggest transitional years of my life.  If those walls could talk, they would spill stories of love, friendship, fighting, tears, laughter, frustration, hope, sleepless nights, wonderful nights, sleepovers, music, dressing up, dressing down, and so much more.

We had a good run D3.  I’ll miss you.