These are mine and my mom and dad’s wedding bands. My mother gave me hers, and it’s really special to me (the top set). Mine are the bottom set. I wear both sets. It’s sort of weird – but it’s okay.

Hello my faithful readers and viewers of my amateur photography. I haven’t been around in a while due to a death in my family. I feel now ready to speak of my pain and hopefully work through some of the things that I have been holding inside.

 My Grandmother died a few weeks ago. She wasn’t just any Grandmother – she was my grandmother. She raised me until the age of 6 when my very young mother was able to settle down and care for me properly. Even after that, my grandma was always there for me. First missing tooth, Christmas’s, dance recitals, dance competitions, cheerleading, softball, high school, getting in trouble with the law. She was always there to bail me out. She never once regretted it. In fact, although I did get my tail whipped and a mouth full, she was there.

 She wasn’t the type to say she loved you. She was tough as nails and had a stare that would cut through even the toughest of metals. She was hard faced. She said what she meant and meant what she said. She spoke her mind – and didn’t care about someone’s feelings getting hurt – if they did – she was there to pick up the pieces.

 I can’t remember a time where I ever saw her without a cigarette and Pepsi by her side. She moved her living room furniture once a week and the bedroom furniture every other month. She was superstitious, loud, and mouthy and cursed like a sailor.

 She was a hell of a woman. Strong, brave, loyal, honest. She was everything I wanted to be but couldn’t. Our parents used to threaten us kids to send us to her house when we were older and misbehaving. Just the thought of it would scare us straight, except for me.

 I was always grandma’s favorite. It was no secret. Everyone knew it. No one was jealous. It was just a special bond that only she and I shared. When I misbehaved I jumped at the thought of mom sending me away to grandmas. I wanted to stay permanently.. just like old times. We would can fresh veggies, sing gospel songs in the kitchen and play Mario Bros. on the original Nintendo. On Friday’s we would drive the hour trip to my grandfather’s work, pick up his check and go to McDonald’s; a rare treat for a woman who swore fast food would kill us all. She would have the Fish Filet every time, never missed one.  She seemed invincible.

 About 10 years ago she was diagnosed with COPD. She was given 6 months at most. She was a fighter. 8 years ago she was diagnosed with chronic bronchitis. She didn’t stop smoking. She always said that if she was going to go, she was going to go happy. Two years ago, however, she didn’t look like the grandma that I had known all my life. She was frail, slow to walk and talk, kept falling throughout the house. She carried with her an oxygen machine and had a bigger one in the house. She kept smoking. She was in and out of the hospital, sometimes for weeks at a time. She hardly spoke and when she did you could barely make out what she was saying. The doctors had her so doped up on morphine that when she was awake, which was never more than a few hours, she couldn’t move from the hospital bed that had been placed in the living room for her. She had a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order. It was placed neatly over her bed for all to see. Mainly for the EMS when they came, but a grim reminder for all of us who loved her. She didn’t want to be kept alive by machines any longer.

 Last year when my husband and I went to visit we knew that her time here was coming to an end. She could barely hold her head. I knew it was drawing to a close when I had heard that she didn’t have the strength to hold a cigarette without burning her clothing or blanket. That’s when I knew.

 My mother called me about a month ago. She let me know that grandma wasn’t doing very well. Mom thought that she was just trying to get through Christmas. That’s exactly what she did. My mom told me when she called to wait for her call to let me know. My mother never calls me, I always find out family news through cousins, aunts and uncles.

 On the 30^th of December I was playing the Sims on my computer, a night like any other. The phone rang and I heard my husband answer it. I figured that it was his brother but when his voice started trailing over to me, I knew it wasn’t for him. As soon as he said that it was my mother I knew. She didn’t have to tell me. I didn’t want to take the call. As if by not taking the call, it would all go away – it never happened. My hubby forced me to take the call. My mother didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. I was devastated. The only rock, the only unmovable force in my world was gone.

 My mother and I cried for a few minutes. I told her I would call her back. I needed to let it out. Hubby did damage control. After a few hours I pulled myself together and booked the first flight home. There was no way I would miss the services – no matter how broke we are. Besides, I needed to be there for my mother. She needed me, I needed her.

 The day of the viewing I barely made it into the mortuary. When I did, I crumbled. Everything had been shattered. Everyone, except for me, had made it through the night fairly well. 50 of my family members (family only) showed up. Cousins I hadn’t seen in years, uncles that seemed to be lost in the world – everyone I knew. Friends by the dozen had stopped by to give their condolences. There were two boards with photos of Grandma. In the end, we had resulted in posting photos of the kids and grandkids and great grandkids due to her lack of being on film. There was one photo that stuck out. Her. You couldn’t see her face, only her hiding her face with her middle finger. Straight in the frame – plain as day. Some folks commented on it, others gasp. Well, we thought, if you are going to remember her, remember her for WHO she was. That was a classic example of exactly who she was. 

 The day of the funeral it was freezing rain. The service was beautiful. Once again, I fell apart. I wanted to hold it together, but the sight of my grandfather being carried in by my mother and aunt tore me up. The quiet man, the one who doesn’t get hurt – could barely stand up. They would have been married 46 years on the 18^th of January.

 My grandmother didn’t go kicking and screaming as I had predicted most of my life. She didn’t go arguing with anyone. She made her peace. She was ready.

 We learn a lot from those we love. We learn life lessons, what to do, what not to do and we learn to love unconditionally. My grandmother taught me many tools to a long and happy life. The most important, however, was the tool to love myself and others. Even though she never told me that she loved me, I know that she did. She didn’t have to say it. Sometimes it’s what isn’t said that counts.

 Thank you all for listening to my story.

In memory of Joyce A. Rittenhouse Fisher 1946 – 2008

I may be a little *late* but atleast I got here. I wanted to check out all the fuss going on over at Picnik.com. I have to say, I like it. That is to say that I like it more than the usual simple editing programs that barely give you control over cropping features. Picnik is nice to add different features to an image without a lot of the fuss that comes with photoshop. Although I love photoshop – this is a nice app too.