Saginaw is mostly a mosaic of empty lots, crumpling porches, boarded windows. On Christmas, it’s cold and wet and nearly dark by 4pm, when Gramps and I pull into the hospital parking lot. The cars are all American and rusty, the grey sky lit up with fast food logos. And even the hospital feels a bit dingy; there is rust on the admissions sign, and the elevator smells like smoke and popcorn.
Gigi looks tired and gaunt, so different from when she bounced you on her leg a little over a year ago. But her grip is still tight, and she smiles when I tell her about you and Henry and Jennie playing in the giant snowflakes on Christmas eve. Stories of you, and little Wilma, are the only thing that make her smile. She is still strong and alive but speaking is hard for her, and she tells me very softly that she is not suffering, but she isn’t very happy.
And it’s not the same, but I feel like I have seen this before. Days before, George died. George was my cat for 19 years and was strong and healthy until the moment he wasn’t. It’s not fair to compare a woman to a cat but from the outside at least death feels the same. It is slow and steady and painful and inevitable as a train on a track. And what you do, all you can do, is stand watch.
Gigi grew up not far from this hospital, in a little town called Richville that may or may not exist now as anything other than the name of a gas station or party store. She was one of six girls born on a farm to a school teacher and his wife. The school teacher died of TB when the youngest was just two years old and the depression was in full swing, leaving the seven ladies to figure things out on their own. And they did, selling eggs and taking in sewing. The stories from that time are plentiful, and I’ll try to remember some and write them down. What is striking is that they are all happy stories. Little girls driving the car down country roads all by themselves, rocking the chickens to sleep for fun.
Your Gigi had a great and exciting life, seemingly by accident, just through being herself in all the weird times and places she lived. It feels off for her to be in this crappy little hospital, in this ghosty little town, even though she lived within miles of it for most of her life. She is a big big lady, all 90 some pounds of her now, too big for this tiny little everyday death.
Little Bug 