Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek (10 page)

You know that feeling
when you just want to be left alone? When you just want to shut your bedroom door on the world for a day? Well, I went through that, but instead of it being just a day, it was about an entire-year phase.

I graduated high school and moved in with my grandparents, who lived just blocks from the college I was going to attend. I was going through some intense teen angst.

“No, Grandma, I don’t want any food.”

“No, Grandpa, I don’t want to go to church.”

“No, Grandma, I don’t want to watch
Wheel of Fortune
with you guys.”

“No, Grandma, I’m still not hungry.”

They were the sweetest people in the world. But, to me, they were just annoying. I knew at the time I was being a brat, I just couldn’t stop it. Or at least I didn’t stop it. I really wanted to just go to school and then come home, without being offered eight things to eat, to go into my room and crawl under my blanket and not come out until the morning.

It was a really depressing time. I didn’t have any friends, mostly because I didn’t join a sorority. And my biological father had moved back in with his parents, my grandparents—just two bedrooms down from me. Totally uncomfortable since I never had a great relationship with him in the first place.

One day my grandma insisted she take me shopping to find a new comforter set for my bed. She thought something bright and cheery would help lighten my mood. At the time my room was disgusting. There was literally trash piled all over the floor. I remember seeing an apple core stick out of a pile of papers in the corner of my room. I agreed with her that I needed a change and went along as she picked out a canary yellow, flowered comforter. And you know what? For a time, it kinda worked. I felt happier. I opened my shades and let the sun hit the swirly yellow and pink flowers.

But, eventually, the depression came back. And there was a good six months of just anger where I was being a complete bitch. I honestly couldn’t stop it. I hated running into my dad in the house, talking to my grandparents about school, being told to turn the TV down in my room…everything was agonizing to me.

And then my car broke down. Looking back, I feel it was a blessing from God. It was August in Oklahoma—insanely hot and humid and hot. My car breaking down meant that I wasn’t going to walk to classes. So, while my car was in the shop getting fixed, my grandparents drove me back and forth for four days. Normally, at this time of my so-called life, I wouldn’t spend that much time with them, but relying on them for transportation forced some quality time on me.

One afternoon Grandma picked me up from class, and since we had a few hours before the next class, we decided to grab lunch at a local burger shop. As we sat there eating our burgers and crinkled fries, I kept thinking to myself,
Just say it. Say it now…Just say it.
So I did. I looked at my grandma, took a breath and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a brat. And I’m sorry I get mad so much. I don’t know why I’m like this. I’m sorry if I ever hurt your feelings. I don’t mean it.”

Without missing a beat, Grandma simply replied, “I know. You don’t have to be sorry. You’re just going through a tough time, that’s all.”

I felt such a relief. I may not have been able to stop being bratty and bitchy and wanting to be left alone, no matter how bad I wanted to, but at least I managed to say I was sorry. I meant it.

The day after our lunch out, Grandma and I waited in the covered patio while Grandpa pulled the minivan out of the garage. It was extremely hot that day, even more sweltering than usual. I could feel droplets of sweat trickling down my back. Suddenly my grandma, who had been standing right next to me, stumbled. She took a step back and caught herself on the patio wall. I asked if she was okay. She insisted she was and went back inside to get some iced tea to cool herself down.

Later that day as I walked through the kitchen on my way to my room, another bout of bitchiness came over me. I just wanted to be left alone—again. My grandmother was wrapping a wedding gift for my uncle and his new wife. She stopped me to ask how to spell his wife’s name. Of course, this annoyed the crap out of me for no good reason. I responded sharply, “I don’t know. Ask my mom.”

I regret that to this day. I wish I could have known what would happen that night. I wish I had acted differently. I wish I wasn’t such a spoiled brat. I continued to my room, crawled into bed and turned on the TV. Hours later, I heard my grandma turn off the lights in the kitchen. I heard her familiar shuffling walk down the carpet on the way to her bedroom. I remember thinking to myself,
Please don’t stop at my door to talk to me. I just want to be left alone. Please keep walking.

But she didn’t. The shuffling across the carpet stopped right at my door. I held my breath, annoyed. Then I heard her say, “Good night…” Her feet didn’t begin moving again. She was waiting for my response. I didn’t want to respond. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to be left alone. So I kept quiet. I couldn’t be bothered to say two small words—good night.

At about 3
A.M.
I was still up watching TV. I heard a noise. It was an old house, so hearing noises late at night wasn’t unusual. But this was different. I muted the television to listen. I could faintly make out my grandfather’s voice: “Honey? Honey? Honey, are you okay?”

I got out of bed and walked to their bedroom. I could see the light coming from their bathroom and my grandma’s legs sticking out between the doorway’s threshold. I turned the corner to see my grandpa holding up my grandma’s shoulders as she lay lifeless on the ground, her bare legs extending out of her nightgown. I was in shock. What happened? What’s going on? What was I supposed to do?

“Grandpa, should I call 911?” I asked.

“I don’t know…she just fell,” he responded, clearly not thinking straight.

“Grandpa, should I call 911?” I repeated. I have no idea why I didn’t just start dialing. Looking back I think I was too stunned. I just wanted everything to be okay. I wanted him to tell me she was fine, it was okay. To call 911 was to admit that something bad had happened. I wasn’t ready for that.

I grabbed the phone and called. The operator asked me if she was breathing and what had happened. I didn’t know. The only thing I could decipher was a gurgling noise. I told the operator that I could hear my grandma gurgling. The operator instantly said, “Okay, if she’s gurgling, I need to give you instruction to perform CPR.” But then I second-guessed myself. “No, maybe she’s just snoring,” I said. The operator responded, “If she’s gurgling, you need to do CPR. Is she gurgling or snoring?” Looking back now I know the sound I heard was what people call the “death rattle.” The final gasps of air just before you die. I don’t know what I was thinking—I was so afraid. I was frozen. I didn’t want to give my grandma CPR. What if I hurt her? What if I didn’t do it right and killed her? I convinced myself it was snoring and told the operator CPR wasn’t necessary. She told me the ambulance would be there soon.

There was a portable clothes rack next to the doorway of the bathroom. I got up and threw it to the side, bending the metal frame. I didn’t want anything to get in the way for the paramedics. When they got there, I wanted them to be able to get right to her.

I went outside to wait for the ambulance. It felt like forever. Literally. I saw the ambulance pull around the corner and I ran to it, jumping and thanking God for sending help. When they finally pulled up to my curb, the two male paramedics moved so slowly. I didn’t understand that. This was an emergency. I screamed at them, “Why are you moving so slow?!!! My grandma is in there and she’s dying!! You have to go faster! Go faster, go faster, go faster!!!”

They didn’t. They continued at their glacial pace. They entered the house and performed CPR immediately. Right then I knew my grandma had died right there. How? Their cat. My grandparents had this really old cat that did nothing but lie around all day long. But at this moment, as my grandma lie on the bathroom floor, the cat started jumping up and down, swatting at some invisible object and meowing into the air. I tried to calm her down, but this cat was way too freaked out.

A few minutes later, the paramedics emerged from the bathroom with my grandma on a stretcher. My grandpa was in a T-shirt and boxers. He followed hurriedly behind them, looking despondent and scared. I ran after them and saw my grandpa get into the ambulance, hovering over my grandma. She had stopped breathing but the paramedics were able to resuscitate her.

I walked back inside the house and called my mother. I told her to make the thirty-minute drive over as soon as possible. I paced, waiting. Then I noticed blood on the carpet. My grandma’s blood. Blood that fell in an effort to save her life. I couldn’t let my grandpa see this when he got home. I had to clean it up now. I kneeled on the ground and scrubbed and scrubbed until there was no evidence left.

My mom and I arrived at the hospital to good news. Grandma was on monitors and a breathing machine, but the doctor thought she might be okay. I asked to see her, but everyone insisted it would be too traumatizing for me, what with all the tubes and machines. I should just go home, they advised, go to sleep and see her tomorrow when she’s feeling better.

I went home and slept well that night, comforted by the thought that I was going to be a different person. I almost lost my grandma and the last thing I’d said to her was, “I don’t know. Ask my mom.” I wouldn’t live like this anymore. This bratty, bitchy kid. I would appreciate my grandparents and say good night to them. I had to learn the hard way, but I learned. I’ve been given another chance to do right by them.

I was awakened from my deep sleep by a phone call. It was my sister and she told me to get to the hospital immediately. It wasn’t good.

I raced over and sat in a very sterile, white room with my dad, sister, grandpa, our family minister and his wife. The doctor came in and told us that my grandma didn’t have enough oxygen to her brain when she collapsed, and she was officially brain-dead. She wasn’t going to be okay. We had to take her off of life support.

It seemed so sharp and quick. No one talked about it, discussed other options or asked questions. We sat there in silence. And then as quickly as we were told we had to pull the plug, we were in her room, and the doctor shut off the machine. It was so quick. I could barely even think straight. Where was my mother? She’d want to be here for this. What’s going on? Can I hold her hand? Can I ask for a moment to be alone with her before she leaves us forever? Can I just tell her I’m sorry? Can I tell her good night? Please? Please, I just want a second to think.

But, before I could let out a word, she was gone. The machine shut down and she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. We were all in shock, quietly crying to ourselves. As soon as she died, we left the room. Looking back, I wish I’d sat with her for a while. But it was all so sudden and no one knew how to handle it. I was the last to leave the room. A man came up to me and asked me for permission to take her body to the funeral home. Already? You have to take her right now? I ignored him and began searching for my mom. She was supposed to be here. Where was she? I got into the elevator and it took too long, stopping at every floor. I wanted fresh air. I needed out of this building.

Finally, I got off the elevator and as soon as I turned the corner, I ran into my mom. She had no idea. I remember she still had a look of hope on her face. The kind of hope that only comes from not knowing. The kind of hope you hold onto so tight because you know inevitably the truth does come out and that hope disappears. I looked at her and said, “She’s gone. They made us turn off the machines, and now she’s gone.”

And I’ll never forget that moment. My mom fell to her knees and wept. We sat there in the stairwell, huddled on the ground crying. She insisted on seeing my grandma. I couldn’t bring myself to go into the room. I wish now that I did. But in that moment, it was too real. My mom was in there with her for about ten minutes. I don’t know what she was doing in there, and I never asked.

When I got home I saw my grandpa sitting in his blue recliner, with her matching one empty, right next to him. The TV was off and it was eerily quiet in the house. He didn’t look up when I walked in. Why should he? The only person he cared to see walk through that door wasn’t going to walk through ever again. So what did he care who was coming into the house? I stood there, staring at him. I was wondering what he was thinking. He was staring at the clock. I wondered: was he looking at the clock thinking about how life was perfect at that exact time one day ago? Or was he watching the second hand tick, wondering how many more seconds, minutes, hours, days until he could be with my grandma again.

Over the next several weeks, he and I relived that night together. He would repeat the same few things:

“I shouldn’t have let her work in the garden. It was so hot.”

“I really wish you didn’t break that clothes rack.”

“What happened again? Will you tell me what happened again?”

“Why didn’t she tell me she didn’t feel well?”

It was strange to hear him get mad at her. He was mad that she was in the sun the day she died. It was too hot for her to be out. He was so angry at her. It was strange. Because when we get mad at one another like that, it’s because we’re concerned for the well-being of those we care about. We scold because we hope it’ll save them from harm. Save their life. But here he was, mad at her, and it wasn’t going to help. She was gone. She was never gonna come back. We can’t tell her not to miss her pills. We can’t tell her to get out of the sun. None of it will help now. It’s done. She’s done.

As my grandpa replayed the day of her death, getting madder that he didn’t make her stay inside from the hot, Oklahoma sun, I went down my own path of torture. I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing CPR. What was I so afraid of? If I’d given her CPR, her brain wouldn’t have been deprived of oxygen for so long and she might still be with us. Why was I so afraid?