A few years ago, my grandmother, whom I called Nana, began greeting me in an unusual way. As always, I’d pull up to the side entrance of her home, where I’d catch her smile through the window. I’d walk in, she’d give me a big hug, and she would proceed to tell me—not ask—“Case, before you get settled, why don’t you run into the garden and scream.”
I can’t remember exactly when or why she started doing this, but it’s been a running joke between us for a while—even though she wasn’t really joking. Whether I was stressed from work, heartbroken, or terrified of the pandemic, Nana had no time for sadness. So if I ever arrived at her home with even a whiff of negativity, she’d send me out to the garden to go scream it out into her peonies. Sometimes she’d point to Popop’s old punching bag still dangling in the garage.
For the longest time, this did not exactly resonate with me. Aside from the fact that this is a pretty dated and arguably unhealthy way of dealing with emotions, I am also a certified crier. But alas, it was always Nana’s way or the highway, so I’d dutifully indulge, trek out to the garden, rain or shine, and let out a half-hearted Ahhh!
It’s only since Nana left us that I have come to appreciate what this was all about.
You see, anyone who knew Nana knew how much she loved to have fun.
Growing up, my sisters and I used to go visit Nana and Popop in Florida for Christmas. As soon as we walked into the house, she would blast Frank Sinatra’s “Jingle Bells,” and we’d run around the house singing, “I love those j-i-n-g-l-e bells. Ohhhh.”
Our Thanksgivings followed suit. After Nana awarded the Turkey hat to everybody at the dinner table, the lights would go down in her kitchen, Bobby Whiteman would hook up the Ping Pong song, and we’d run around her kitchen island, singing and dancing for hours.
And she was murderously funny.
Nana was the mastermind behind the family tradition of the rewrap, in which she would quietly rewrap old gifts that had been given to her that she didn’t want anymore—sometimes right in front of the original giver.
Last summer, we went shopping at Talbots, where she pointed at a bright yellow shirt, and yelled, “This is HIDEOUS.” (Obviously within earshot of the saleswoman). At the checkout counter, the saleswoman directed Nana to the card machine. Nana shook her head. “They’re always playing MONEY TRICKS.”
Even in her final moments, Nana and I managed to sing a little j-i-n-g-l-e bells together. But Nana was deeply uncomfortable and ready to go. The nurse said, “Mrs. Patricia, God isn’t ready for you.”
Nana perked up. “His loss,” she said.
And now, it is ours.
I’ve honestly been anticipating this moment for a while. But nothing could have prepared me for the ambient, heavy fog of grief. Here was a woman who knew me for my entire life. I grew up with her telling me stories, and then when I started writing them, she read every single one and believed in me every step of the way. She often shared books with me about other writers, and she understood how hard it was to get published. And then, inexplicably, before I could share my next story with her, she was gone.
Meanwhile, life has continued to barrel forward in every way, forcing me to move on when I don’t really want to—when I still miss her so, so much. I've really struggled with that tension, especially when I have found myself feeling happy.
There was a moment in December when my boyfriend Dylan and I went out to a concert in Brooklyn. We were out celebrating his birthday, dancing late into the night, and for the first time in a while, I felt euphoric. The music was so loud you could feel it on your skin, and the lights were purple, and we couldn’t stop smiling. And then, I felt a wave of guilt: how could I be so happy when I should be sad?
But then I thought about Nana, and how even on our last night together, she laid in her bed, grabbed my hand tight, looked me in the eyes and said, “Have fun.”
Every card, every call, every visit always ended this way: Nana insisting on having fun. Because Nana had an acute sense of just how precious life is. There is so much of the world to see! So many books to read! So much to love share. She never wanted sadness to steal a single moment from her, and she wouldn’t want that for any of us either. So go ahead, walk into that garden and scream. Let it all out, take in those gorgeous azaleas, and don't waste one second being sad.
That night in Brooklyn, I realized that there was nowhere else she would’ve wanted me to be but on the dance floor, and I felt her smiling down from Heaven. Now I know as long as I’m having fun, she’s still with me.
Nana’s last day with us was Thanksgiving. That day, she mustered the strength to come downstairs to celebrate with us. In classic Pat fashion, she bossed everyone around til the end. Where are the dessert spoons! Put ice in the water pitcher! Hurry up! She rang the bell, and we all sat down for our last meal together, during which she gave a toast and handed out needle points that she had made us.
Afterwards, she hopped in her stairlift, which she called Gail the Snail. She wanted to go to her room and rest for a moment while we continued celebrating.
She clicked on the snail. “Keep telling your stories,” she said. “I’ll just be upstairs.”
