Lucky Charms

I have a lot of tattoos. Working as an unpaid apprentice at a tattoo shop, you tend to accumulate a bit. I quit counting them after I got 50. But growing up the only one I really, really wanted was a green four-leaf clover with a date on the back of my neck. Some people might find a four-leaf clover cliche or overdone, but it has special meaning for me.

When I was 10 my grandmother, Nana, came to live with us. She had Alzheimer’s for years. My uncle, her primary caregiver, had just died in a motorcycle wreck. There were other family members that lived closer to her, but Mom volunteered to bring her in with us.

Nana was/is the kindest person I’ve ever known. She never had a bad word for anyone, even when the Alzheimer’s got to its worst. She was God-fearing, read the Bible cover to cover TWICE, & upheld everything she believed in and preached. She was soft spoken and thoughtful. She listened to what was said and would sit and consider her response before replying. She truly heard you. She didn’t listen and have an answer ready, as most people do. She wanted you to know that what you said was as important to her as it was to you.

And with every passing year, I swear she just got more beautiful. She had jet black hair, with a mild dusting of gray around the roots, that went past her knees. She NEVER cut it. Ever. I remember my sisters and I would argue over who got to brush her hair each night before she’d braid it and roll it into a bun. She carried herself with that classic grace and beauty of a 1930s movie star. She was always thin, lithe, and her smile matched her spirit.

I gained a new best friend when she moved in with us. I’d come home from school each day, and we’d sit and talk about how school was going. She’d have tea parties with me or just watch me do my homework. We’d watch The Andy Griffith Show together, or she would listen to Billy Graham preach while I played with Barbies in the floor at her feet. I loved having my grandmother in the house with us.

But when I was thirteen, my mother told me that Nana was homesick. Her memory and the disease was getting worse. She needed to go home, and we were going with her.

I wish I could say I viewed this as an adventure. I wish I could say accepted the news with grace and maturity. I wish I could say I was like my Nana and was thoughtful and kind through the process. But I can’t. I was a bitch. Well, a major brat (at that age). I cried and screamed at my mother. I told her she was ruining my life (how melodramatic we are at thirteen). I tried to find ways of staying, like moving in with my best friend or staying behind with my older sister who was in the local community college. Neither was going to happen.

So I sulked. And cried. I refused to speak to anyone, not my mother or sisters or, even, my Nana. Like I said, I was a bitch.

But the move still happened. I was bribed with a cell phone, and back in that day for a 13-year-old to have a cell phone was a big deal. But they wanted me to be able to keep up with my friends (friend) back home. And they wanted me to stop being an asshole to everyone. It worked, mostly.

It took some time, but I adjusted. I ended up with more friends in this new place than I’d ever had back home. I was more involved in school clubs and church. I was happy-ish. And, for a while, Nana seemed to get better. She had more days where she could recall things from the past and regale us with stories. We’d sit on the back porch and hit a beach ball back and forth. She’d laugh until she cried, and we’d cackle along with her. Things were looking up.

But what goes up must come down. Soon, there were days where her mind would get stuck in the past. She would forget where she was, or she would wake up in the middle of the night and try to walk out the door. The worst days, to me, were the days where she would stare off in space and retreat within herself. She was always quiet and thoughtful, but this was…different. My mother once told me that she believed that people with Alzheimer’s became more of themselves with the disease. You hear stories of patients becoming irate or violent, but that wasn’t Nana. She was always quiet, and now, she was silent.

Not only was her memory fading, but her general health declined, as well. She had numerous health conditions, including a lung disease. Watching the downward spiral of it all took its toll on all of us.

Fast forward to age fifteen. I have a huge group of friends. I’m lead singer in my church band and choir, head of the interpretive drama group, and president of the Christian club at school. All of this is due in large part to my Nana’s devout belief in God and the church.

Picture this– It’s a warm Friday night. Fireflies are out, and it’s the kind of night where most teenagers would be out with friends. That’s what I was doing. I had church band practice at my youth pastor’s house. I remember picking around on a guitar, though I was hopeless with it and didn’t have the patience for it at all. We were going over a new song to perform the following week, and I was struggling to hit the right note. My youth pastor received a call first. Then several of my friends got text messages or calls. It seemed odd; everyone started acting odd.

My youth pastor ended practice; we’d already gone over our preset time of an hour. He and his wife offered to take me home. Seeing as I wasn’t driving yet, that was pretty normal for me. But the whole drive back something wasn’t sitting well. I had this pit in my stomach. It was only a ten-minute drive from his house to mine, but it felt like an hour. When we got home, the pit opened up. There were probably ten cars in my driveway. My mother was standing outside the garage, waiting for me, with red, swollen eyes and a look on her face that I can only describe as broken.

No one had to tell me what happened, I just knew. The weirdness at practice, the line of cars, the look on Mom’s face– it was obvious. But what they did have to tell me was that they’d already taken Nana’s body away.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t be there. Mom called a friend from church and asked if I could stay the night. She’d been with me at band practice. She’d been one who’d received the mysterious text messages. When I got to her house, she told me what the mystery was– it was a mass message to all of my friends about my Nana’s passing with specific instructions to keep the information from me. Well, to not say anything to me so they my family could inform me themselves.

I was hurt, but more than that, I was angry. Not only did I not get the chance to say goodbye, but everyone knew before me. Looking back now, I understand (mostly) why they did it that way. But at fifteen, it just felt like they thought I couldn’t handle it. And maybe I couldn’t. But now I’d never know.

The next few days passed in a blur. I was a mess for the funeral. My aunt wanted us to sing a hymn during the service, but none of us were really able to get any words out between our sobbing. My two aunts got into it with each other, while my mom, per usual, tried to play peacemaker. There were arguments between cousins, aunts, uncles, and my dad. I’ll never understand why people decide to show their asses at funerals.

It’s been eighteen years since my grandmother passed away, not to the day, though. No, today her death always hits me harder than the actual day she died. Today is St. Patrick’s Day, Nana’s birthday. I remember the first time someone told me her birthday was March 17th. I spent hours in our front yard searching for a four-leaf clover for her. When I finally found one, I took it to her. She accepted it with a smile. Ever since then, on the few occasions I could be convinced (or forced) to play outside, I’d hunt for them. They were always so difficult to find, and I was always so proud to present them to Nana when I was successful.

After the funeral, my cousin presented each of us with a laminated four-leaf clover. In memory of Nana. I always wanted my first tattoo to be that clover with her birthdate. It wasn’t. But I did get it done eventually. On her birthday. And though I have many, many tattoos, the clover is still my favorite.

So, today, this one is for you, Nana. Happy birthday to my favorite lucky charm.