She Built a Life She Loved

Bettye Lou Hiltibidal Smith was Jake's maternal grandmother. We called her Meemaw. She died three hours after I arrived in Los Angeles on Sunday, June 3rd.

Cancer isn't even a little part of what defines her to me, but she had been treating it for the last six years, including an initial early remission. She was so brave and optimistic. You would almost never know she was battling anything. She was busy continuing to live her life. After several rounds of chemo, the doctors said there was nothing left to do on May 23rd, my mother-in-law's birthday. The end was swift, but not swift enough when one you love is suffering. 

There's something wonderful about becoming part of another family in early adulthood. Meemaw was certainly a grandmother figure, and I've spent a good deal of time "growing up" around her, but she was also my friend. She and I were bosom buddies; we shared several lived experiences. We knew each other inside out in certain ways. Having someone who understands and responds to specific experiences with compassion is a blessing.

She was light. And speaking about her in past tense doesn't feel right. She loved fiercely. And it seemed to come so easily for her, but her early life was not easy, and it was not full of love. She truly built a life she loved. And I know it was hard for her to leave it. 

One summer, not long before Jake, Cora, and I moved to Chicago, she and I  got together and canned salsa. Afterward we went on an adventure where she showed us all of the places she thought we should know around Holdenville: cemeteries, where her mom was born, where she went to school, where she lived, Friendship Corner. Being with her was easy. Being with her was fascinating. She had so many layers.  

I was sitting on a bench near the dinosaur fountain in the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. A street musician had just started playing a new track of music. I looked down at my phone when I received a text saying Meemaw died at 12:15. As I was reading the words, the musician started singing... 

I'll be seeing you...

I took a second, trying to catch my bearings, letting it sink in. It was expected, but I wasn't expecting it just then. Our girls were with Jake's mom and dad. They were in and out with their great-grandmother during her last days. I hated being so far away. I was working hard to keep it together on that bench on a perfect Sunday morning.

When I met Meemaw, I always thought it was so funny that I had an aunt older than she was. She was 60 then, and 75 when she died. My great-grandmother was 97 when she passed away, and Grammy was almost 94. I'm trying not to be really sad about the difference between 75 and those numbers. Sad that there wasn't that much more time. My attempts are not working very well yet.

She is a once-in-a-lifetime person. If you ever met her, you would never forget her. She was undeniably and unapologetically herself. There was nothing standard or uniform about her. She marched to the beat of her own drum. But rather than marching, it was more of a fast walk with an intensely swinging arm. I love her. So many people did and do. I will probably never put my love for her in past tense. It will be present for as long as I'm alive.

I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you

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