This is so tender and precious. For what it's worth coming from me, yes she is in heaven. I know that doesn't undo your pain because life on earth also matters and hers (and yours) were so sad and unjust. Maybe it helps a small bit to know that many other people believe she is now whole, loved and does have the ability to see and remember you with love and happiness.
This is such a moving story, Josh. Thank you for sharing it. One aspect of your story is similar to mine. My personality disordered father always claimed he had been abused by his parents, and, like your mother, would periodically cut them off, which meant I couldn’t see them either. My grandfather was a high functioning alcoholic, though my grandmother was a teetotaler. Both of them were good to me, and my grandmother was the only person who ever showed me unconditional love when I was a kid. I’ll always wonder what exactly happened to my father and whether it was their fault.
I’m a few years older than you; a ‘73 model. I think my little brother had the same Big Bird. Your story had me confused at first as my grandma’s name was Dolly so I assumed Dolly was your grandmother for a few lines. My Dolly’s real name is actually the Polish version of Mary Magdalene, but she and her best friend from the orphanage where they were raised gave each other nicknames that stuck for life. Her friend was “Billie,” whom I met and never knew her real name.
When I was home for winter break my Freshman year of college in 1992, my grandfather was in the hospital, yet again. He had had rheumatic fever as a child which resulted in heart damage (then he started smoking as a teen and was overweight by his 30s) so he was a cardiopulmonary disaster for decades. My old ski club was hosting downhill and super-G races that week so I volunteered to help work. Every day driving home I thought I should swing down to the hospital, about 30 min from home, to visit him. But I was “so tired” and “waking up at 5 to get to the mountain by 7.” “I’ll go tomorrow.” And I hated hospitals and hated seeing IVs in his arms, purple from needle-sticks. I never went to see him that week. He would have been thrilled to see me. He died 3-4 weeks later on his birthday. Just a selfish 19yo and I regret it all the time.
******
I can’t think of the author’s name, but he researched around the world and interviewed people who had died and been revived. They all had remarkably similar stories of the afterlife. Some who saw Heaven saw children running in beautiful fields and playing with dogs, puppies, kittens, and cats, full of absolute complete joy. I’m sure Connie is with them.
Your experience is much like mine. My grandmother, who gave me unconditional love when I was a child, had a stroke and spent the last couple of years of her life in a nursing home. I went there a few times, but I hated the place and stopped going. I was such a selfish teenager, and I'll regret neglecting her for the rest of my life. If only I could go back in time and do it over again.
Josh, you are a gifted writer. I wish I could say something more profound than simply "thank you for sharing this story". I can absolutely see, hear & even smell in my mind the places from your past you describe, and feel the heartache.
You and Connie - a true love story. You were likely the best person in her life. I have no doubt that she’s in Heaven, exactly as God originally created her to be, for eternity.
Josh, I am very glad you are sharing these memories with us, your followers. But mostly, I'm glad you're writing them down because of the benefit I'm sure it will have for you. As others have said, I feel sure your innocent Aunt Connie is in heaven. And just to be sure, I will be offering a plenary indulgence on her behalf later today. After that, I will be asking her to pray for me, and for all of us still here in this vale of tears, trying to make sense of it all, and to be as good and decent as we can.
The way you're able to remember the details of your childhood/early life are outstanding. Yes, I understand it maybe that's because some of it was horrid versus mundane and boring but for me even college now is like this blur of former roommates and not much beyond that.
Isn’t it strange? My nextdoor neighbor from growing up can’t remember anything. I can’t remember last week, but I remember my childhood vividly. Our parents still live in the same houses, I’m local, and we visit when she’s up seeing her parents. She didn’t even remember cutting the tendon in her pinky finger with sewing scissors doing a school project and the gruesome surgery with the literal pin sticking out of her pinky with the rubber band bending it back, hooked to the cast. I can’t get that image out of my head and she blocked it.
I don't remember everything in great detail. There are a lot of stand-out memories, yes. But I don't have a photographic perfect memory.
When I write these stories, sometimes I don't remember, of course, the verbatim, exact quotations from what people said. Almost no one does. But the dialogue I use is accurate to what kind of thing that person would have said, and the thoughts they did express. I do have a sharp ear for dialogue, tone, and manner, and remember people's affect well.
This fills me with so much nostalgia for another time, and yearning for my long-dead family. Connie seems to have been a truly sweet soul. I don't cry much, but my eyes are welling with tears now.
I think there is little doubt Aunt Connie is with or at least near God. Your story reminded me of an aunt I had, who also was “mentally challenged” (yes we called it retarded then too). My dad was one of the people the caretakers would notify when anything was going on with Virginia who was “in the system”. I probably only saw her 4 or 5 times, and can’t even remember the last time I did see her. It couldn’t have been any later than mid teens though. I remember that sadly, my dad had enough and didn’t want to be the family contact anymore. It’s funny how you write of Connie and your fondness of her. I had Virginia on my mind about a week ago. I have to believe she is long gone now, but I can’t find any records on line. The warmth of your story though, is that at the end Connie knew who you were and was probably as fond of you as you were of her…maybe even more.
A sip of coffee as a toast to Connie and Virginia. May they be a shining light - no matter where they are 😇😇.
I haven't been able to say anything about it without blubbering myself silly. If I hadn't been told my whole life that grandma was evil and kept away maybe I could have had more of a relationship with Aunt Connie. I miss her and remember that bird like walk she had, the giggles and slight impish nature of her. You knew she was in there, she understood a lot more than anyone gave her credit for. Love you.
I’m tired and all out eloquence today, the ability to craft adequate praise for this touching piece, so I’m just going to say thank you so much for sharing this tender, beautiful memory with us.
So much of what you've written has parallels to my life with two disabled siblings. At birth, my identical twin was the more frail of the two of us, and at age 7 began having epileptic seizures, initially Grand Mal and nearly unstoppable for extended periods, causing, it is assumed, some brain damage, leaving her just on the cusp of barely normal IQ at about 72. My brother, at age two, after a bout of rubella, and prolonged fever, suffered retarded (yes, that word does justice to the description) milestones and only attained the cognitive ability of about 7 years old upon reaching adulthood.
I've written about this as a comment in one of your recent past essays. Both of them were isolated and severely stunted by our mother's over-protection. My sister was 66 and my brother was 59 when my mother died, having lived under her thumb their entire lives to that point. Adult children, past the mental and psychological age to learn to be adults.
I alternate between extreme blame to sympathy for my mother. I don't think she intentionally made bad decisions regarding their care, but she was a very selfish person, and in some respects gleaned a sense of identity for the "burden" she carried, selflessly so it seemed, caring for my sister and brother. In fact, much of her "care" for them was not selfless. My twin had her life stolen because she could have had an independent life, if my mother had cared more about my sister than about herself. My brother, in many respects like Connie, had it easier since his mental retardation prevented him from being able to see how diminished his life was due to my mother's fears and concerns for his safety. He could have had a bigger life, but she imprisoned both of them with her irrational fears and need to validate herself by appearing selfless, the devoted mother. They paid a terrible price so she could virtue signal.
You've written a poignant remembrance of Connie, without an ounce of pathos. I hope you know you enriched her life with your love and friendship. Whatever she lacked in cognitive ability, what you gave to her with your time and attention was not lost upon her. She knew then. Her spirit knows now.
This is so tender and precious. For what it's worth coming from me, yes she is in heaven. I know that doesn't undo your pain because life on earth also matters and hers (and yours) were so sad and unjust. Maybe it helps a small bit to know that many other people believe she is now whole, loved and does have the ability to see and remember you with love and happiness.
This is such a moving story, Josh. Thank you for sharing it. One aspect of your story is similar to mine. My personality disordered father always claimed he had been abused by his parents, and, like your mother, would periodically cut them off, which meant I couldn’t see them either. My grandfather was a high functioning alcoholic, though my grandmother was a teetotaler. Both of them were good to me, and my grandmother was the only person who ever showed me unconditional love when I was a kid. I’ll always wonder what exactly happened to my father and whether it was their fault.
I’m a few years older than you; a ‘73 model. I think my little brother had the same Big Bird. Your story had me confused at first as my grandma’s name was Dolly so I assumed Dolly was your grandmother for a few lines. My Dolly’s real name is actually the Polish version of Mary Magdalene, but she and her best friend from the orphanage where they were raised gave each other nicknames that stuck for life. Her friend was “Billie,” whom I met and never knew her real name.
When I was home for winter break my Freshman year of college in 1992, my grandfather was in the hospital, yet again. He had had rheumatic fever as a child which resulted in heart damage (then he started smoking as a teen and was overweight by his 30s) so he was a cardiopulmonary disaster for decades. My old ski club was hosting downhill and super-G races that week so I volunteered to help work. Every day driving home I thought I should swing down to the hospital, about 30 min from home, to visit him. But I was “so tired” and “waking up at 5 to get to the mountain by 7.” “I’ll go tomorrow.” And I hated hospitals and hated seeing IVs in his arms, purple from needle-sticks. I never went to see him that week. He would have been thrilled to see me. He died 3-4 weeks later on his birthday. Just a selfish 19yo and I regret it all the time.
******
I can’t think of the author’s name, but he researched around the world and interviewed people who had died and been revived. They all had remarkably similar stories of the afterlife. Some who saw Heaven saw children running in beautiful fields and playing with dogs, puppies, kittens, and cats, full of absolute complete joy. I’m sure Connie is with them.
Your experience is much like mine. My grandmother, who gave me unconditional love when I was a child, had a stroke and spent the last couple of years of her life in a nursing home. I went there a few times, but I hated the place and stopped going. I was such a selfish teenager, and I'll regret neglecting her for the rest of my life. If only I could go back in time and do it over again.
Josh, you are a gifted writer. I wish I could say something more profound than simply "thank you for sharing this story". I can absolutely see, hear & even smell in my mind the places from your past you describe, and feel the heartache.
Same, here. You've explained my feelings very well, Jennifer.
This is a beautiful story. You had mentioned Connie before in your podcast, but I'm glad to learn more about her. It's obvious you loved her deeply.
How lovely you were able to bathe Connie. .How much you had to process in your growing up years.
You and Connie - a true love story. You were likely the best person in her life. I have no doubt that she’s in Heaven, exactly as God originally created her to be, for eternity.
Josh, I am very glad you are sharing these memories with us, your followers. But mostly, I'm glad you're writing them down because of the benefit I'm sure it will have for you. As others have said, I feel sure your innocent Aunt Connie is in heaven. And just to be sure, I will be offering a plenary indulgence on her behalf later today. After that, I will be asking her to pray for me, and for all of us still here in this vale of tears, trying to make sense of it all, and to be as good and decent as we can.
Mission Accomplished!
The way you're able to remember the details of your childhood/early life are outstanding. Yes, I understand it maybe that's because some of it was horrid versus mundane and boring but for me even college now is like this blur of former roommates and not much beyond that.
Isn’t it strange? My nextdoor neighbor from growing up can’t remember anything. I can’t remember last week, but I remember my childhood vividly. Our parents still live in the same houses, I’m local, and we visit when she’s up seeing her parents. She didn’t even remember cutting the tendon in her pinky finger with sewing scissors doing a school project and the gruesome surgery with the literal pin sticking out of her pinky with the rubber band bending it back, hooked to the cast. I can’t get that image out of my head and she blocked it.
I don't remember everything in great detail. There are a lot of stand-out memories, yes. But I don't have a photographic perfect memory.
When I write these stories, sometimes I don't remember, of course, the verbatim, exact quotations from what people said. Almost no one does. But the dialogue I use is accurate to what kind of thing that person would have said, and the thoughts they did express. I do have a sharp ear for dialogue, tone, and manner, and remember people's affect well.
This fills me with so much nostalgia for another time, and yearning for my long-dead family. Connie seems to have been a truly sweet soul. I don't cry much, but my eyes are welling with tears now.
I think there is little doubt Aunt Connie is with or at least near God. Your story reminded me of an aunt I had, who also was “mentally challenged” (yes we called it retarded then too). My dad was one of the people the caretakers would notify when anything was going on with Virginia who was “in the system”. I probably only saw her 4 or 5 times, and can’t even remember the last time I did see her. It couldn’t have been any later than mid teens though. I remember that sadly, my dad had enough and didn’t want to be the family contact anymore. It’s funny how you write of Connie and your fondness of her. I had Virginia on my mind about a week ago. I have to believe she is long gone now, but I can’t find any records on line. The warmth of your story though, is that at the end Connie knew who you were and was probably as fond of you as you were of her…maybe even more.
A sip of coffee as a toast to Connie and Virginia. May they be a shining light - no matter where they are 😇😇.
I haven't been able to say anything about it without blubbering myself silly. If I hadn't been told my whole life that grandma was evil and kept away maybe I could have had more of a relationship with Aunt Connie. I miss her and remember that bird like walk she had, the giggles and slight impish nature of her. You knew she was in there, she understood a lot more than anyone gave her credit for. Love you.
We all needed something much better than what we got. I love you too.
I’m tired and all out eloquence today, the ability to craft adequate praise for this touching piece, so I’m just going to say thank you so much for sharing this tender, beautiful memory with us.
Wonderful essay, Josh. Very touching. But I have to say, the doll in the picture looks like Suitcase Man, Brandon's nuclear waste disposal dude.
What struck me the most while reading this will likely surprise you.
Although you’ve always seemed like a reasonably likable person, somehow something about the way you told this story made you seem even more likable.
(Also, I couldn’t help wonder if it is possible that you are actually Connie’s child rather than the child of the mother you know.)
So much of what you've written has parallels to my life with two disabled siblings. At birth, my identical twin was the more frail of the two of us, and at age 7 began having epileptic seizures, initially Grand Mal and nearly unstoppable for extended periods, causing, it is assumed, some brain damage, leaving her just on the cusp of barely normal IQ at about 72. My brother, at age two, after a bout of rubella, and prolonged fever, suffered retarded (yes, that word does justice to the description) milestones and only attained the cognitive ability of about 7 years old upon reaching adulthood.
I've written about this as a comment in one of your recent past essays. Both of them were isolated and severely stunted by our mother's over-protection. My sister was 66 and my brother was 59 when my mother died, having lived under her thumb their entire lives to that point. Adult children, past the mental and psychological age to learn to be adults.
I alternate between extreme blame to sympathy for my mother. I don't think she intentionally made bad decisions regarding their care, but she was a very selfish person, and in some respects gleaned a sense of identity for the "burden" she carried, selflessly so it seemed, caring for my sister and brother. In fact, much of her "care" for them was not selfless. My twin had her life stolen because she could have had an independent life, if my mother had cared more about my sister than about herself. My brother, in many respects like Connie, had it easier since his mental retardation prevented him from being able to see how diminished his life was due to my mother's fears and concerns for his safety. He could have had a bigger life, but she imprisoned both of them with her irrational fears and need to validate herself by appearing selfless, the devoted mother. They paid a terrible price so she could virtue signal.
You've written a poignant remembrance of Connie, without an ounce of pathos. I hope you know you enriched her life with your love and friendship. Whatever she lacked in cognitive ability, what you gave to her with your time and attention was not lost upon her. She knew then. Her spirit knows now.
Oh, my friend. You've seen it up close even more than I have. How hard that must have been.
I really do have every sympathy for kids with siblings like this, including my mother. They don't stop having needs just because a brother needs more.
It was the unrelenting hatred and unashamed envy and meanness from my mother about her sister that I couldn't take.