Reflections, by a Memory Hoarder: A Tribute to Mimi

On February 18, my grandmother Mimi passed away. We were told there couldn't be a eulogy at her funeral, so though I had started working on this, I stopped writing it. At the visiting hours, a family friend asked if I had been blogging lately, and I told her how I hadn't had the time or the inspiration to write. Well, I can't think of a better way to jump back into it after a break than to honor my grandmother. . . .

For those of you who knew my grandmother, you’ve seen the face. You know the one: the one she gave when she was being stubborn. When she was determined. When she was wordlessly expressing, “Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?” It was the face she gave when you challenged her, when you told her you didn’t think she could do X, Y, or Z, like finish that last bite, take that extra step, say those words that were on the tip of her tongue. I feel as though she had been giving Life that face for the last seven years. Every time Life said, “Jo, maybe this is it.” She gave that face: Wanna bet?

Our family has joked that Mimi had nine lives. There were so many times she could have left this world. After her stroke. After the cancer diagnosis. After the chemo. The surgeries. And yet she hung on. She was a fighter. Clearly a little stubborn, but definitely a fighter.

I feel especially fortunate to have lived with Mimi and Bobo for a little bit as an adult. I called them on a Monday in 2007 and said, “Mimi and Bobo, I want to work in publishing in New York City. Can I move in on Saturday?” And they both joked that I could move in sooner if I wanted to. After eight months of living with them, I moved to Mimi’s old neighborhood of Astoria, just a couple of blocks from where she grew up. When she and Bobo drove me to my apartment, they pointed out their old haunts, her old apartment, where they used to go on dates. It made me feel even closer to Mimi.

Me and R in front of Mimi's childhood
apartment in Astoria, just three blocks from
R's first apartment.

Just a month after I moved out, Mimi had her stroke. I remember getting the call from my mom that she needed me to go to the hospital. And that’s where I went and spent the next couple of days. I remember sitting on my grandmother’s bed, thinking that this could be it. She didn’t know who I was. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t feed herself.

But then she started to come back, slowly but surely. I remember we were all sitting in the lounge at the rehabilitation center, and she was starting to joke around. She was so nonchalant with her punch lines and her expressions that her stories were even funnier than she had anticipated. She was fighting her way back, and she was able to give that face. Nope, not yet, Life. I still have some fight in me.

In those seven years that she fought, she got to see three of her grandkids get married; she met two of her three great-grandchildren; she saw her grandkids pursuing their dreams: graduating from college and getting jobs; entering the military; joining the police force; training to be a nurse. My grandmother wasn’t a perfect woman (who is?), but she was a perfect grandmother. And she supported the seven of us in ways that we’ll never forget. She loved us fiercely. She wore our names and our birthdays proudly around her neck every day. She loved her great-grandchildren, and it was like talking to a new woman whenever we called her on Skype so she could see the kids. I swear I could have set the camera up and told her to watch R for the next hour so I could go get some things done, and she would have been able to do it, and happily. I know she would have loved to have met all the great-grandkids to come, but it was time to give the face a rest. It was time. That’s perhaps why it’s been slightly easier for us all to accept this. We know that we were lucky to have the time that we did, that it felt like we were cheating the last couple of years when she could have so easily checked out. I mean, how cool is it that she was able to see all seven of her grandkids reach adulthood?

It doesn’t mean we’re not sad, though. By chance, when I arrived in Tarrytown and went for a manicure and pedicure with my mom, sister, and cousins, something we’ve all done with Mimi numerous times, I got her favorite manicurist. I sat in her chair. And I lost it. It was the first I had cried since hearing the news. And then I realized that as sad as it is that I won’t get my nails done with her again, I was crying because I was having a happy memory of Mimi. She loved having her nails done. She loved tickling our backs with her long manicured nails and daring us not to laugh, which was impossible, by the way. I don’t think any of us girls will be able to get a manicure and not think of Mimi.

There are a lot of things I know we’ll do throughout the years that will bring back little memories. But perhaps the hardest one for me will be when I go on my next trip. Many of you may not know this, but my grandmother has traveled with me to more than ten countries over the last ten years. OK, well, not physically. But every time I went somewhere, she was with me, because I had to make sure I found a thimble for her. Oftentimes I would have to go to more than one store to find the perfect one. When I went on my honeymoon to Costa Rica, I forgot to get an ornament for myself, which is what I like to buy as souvenirs . . . but I remembered a thimble for Mimi. When Mike went to Puerto Rico for a wedding, he bought souvenirs for our daughter, a magnet for me on his way out of the store because he didn’t know what else to get . . . and a thimble for Mimi. It became our tradition as much as hers. I’ll never forget Mimi crying when I bought her a Sound of Music thimble from Salzburg, Austria. It was the perfect find, because that was a movie I watched countlessly with her at the house, one that she loved. I won’t be able to watch that movie without thinking of her. And I won’t be able to see a thimble without thinking of her.

We’ll all have those moments. Those moments where she’ll cross our minds and we’ll think of her and miss her. Those memories that make us smile. And, thankfully, each of her grandchildren has a blanket crocheted by her to keep us warm . . . something she was always trying to achieve, even in Texas in July. Every time we wrap ourselves in those blankets, we’ll think of her.

Mimi, I thank you for everything you’ve done for us. You loved us so much, and the feeling will forever be mutual. We’ll miss your kisses . . . even though we hated feeling your whiskers. We’ll miss the face. But most of all, we’ll just miss you. We love you now and forever.

And because I’m not restricted by time, here are some other things that will always make me think of Mimi:

“What a Feeling” from Flashdance: The sound track was all the rage when I was a baby, and Mimi used to put the tape in the player and dance with me to “What a Feeling.” I don’t remember this, of course, but every time the song came on, Mimi asked me if I did.
Halloween: Especially now that I have to look for kids’ costumes, I’ll think of Mimi every Halloween. With the exception of a year or two, Mimi made every single Halloween costume for us.
Styrofoam: Any time I get takeout food in a Styrofoam container I’ll think of Mimi because she hated the sound of Styrofoam rubbing together. She always got the chills and made a face like we were torturing her.
Any orange-cranberry-flavored food: She loved anything with orange and cranberries, but especially bread and scones. Also on the list of foods that remind me of her: chili, potato salad, and deviled eggs.
Ripping off Band-Aids: When I was three years old I had a tonsillectomy. When the surgery was over, I remember the only person I wanted to remove the Band-Aids was Mimi.
Road trips: Mimi was notorious for overpacking—bags and bags and bags, most filled with things she didn’t need for the trip; some were even empty. She’d sit in the backseat with all her bags piled on her lap because there was no more room. Every time I pack now, I make a comment about feeling like Mimi because of all the bags we have to pack for R. Mimi would also fall asleep in the car with her neck hung over in the most awkward positions.
Mentos: Mimi used to send care packages, generally filled with junk and candy. But Nicole and I always loved the Mentos.
“Are you hungry?”: Whenever Mimi was hungry, she’d ask if we were and then we’d say, “No, Mimi, are you?” And she shrugged as if she were just asking out of curiosity and nothing more.
Malls: Mimi loved going to the mall, but mostly just to go into JCPenney. Once we stopped there she’d sit on a bench and wait for us to finish shopping.
Scratch-off lottery tickets: Mimi had a whole routine for buying scratch-off tickets. She knew which stores she had better luck in, she knew which cards gave her the most success, and she even had a time of day that she preferred to buy them.
Boats: When we were in Venice, we had to get on a boat to go to the airport. We were all boarding, and Mimi was still on the dock. As she put one foot on the boat, the boat started moving slightly away from the dock. Mimi hesitated and moved her foot back to the dock but continued to hold the hand of the man helping her board. She was spread out between the dock and the boat, and though it was probably terrifying for her, we couldn’t help but laugh once she was safely on board.
Rummy 500: Mimi loved playing Rummy 500, and she would hoard the cards and put them all down at once. It was a risky strategy, but she loved doing it.
March Madness: Strange but true. Mimi's stroke happened during the first round of March Madness, and I was having an unbelievable streak (I went on to win more than $800 in my pool that year). As I sat on her hospital bed, I watched the games on the small screen and tried explaining to her how March Madness and the brackets worked. I told her she was my good-luck charm.
Danielle Steel: Mimi loved her Danielle Steel books.
Crochet/knitting: Whenever I see someone crocheting or knitting I think of Mimi. She always traveled with her bag of yarn and needles, even after she really stopped crocheting. After her stroke, I had her teach me how to knit so I could help her with her motor and communication skills. It took her eleven years to make the first blanket for her grandchildren, and by the time she made it, it was too short for me. Thankfully, after she made the other six, and even some to be auctioned off for charities, she made me a maroon one to represent Texas A&M.

And possibly one of my most favorite memories is when I told Mimi we were pregnant. We had just gotten back from Australia, and we Skyped her and Bobo to tell them the news. We told them about our trip first, and then I said, “And guess what else?” Mimi, not missing a beat, said, “You’re going to have a baby.” The laughs we all had from her knowing it before I said it and from her delivery were truly special.

I know I’m forgetting so many other memories and things that remind me of her. And I know there will be some things I don’t even realize remind me of her until they do. I’m so thankful I have these memories. I’m so thankful I had Mimi.