All my life, I have been surrounded by Catholicism and even confirmed into it as an adult member of its congregation. While I tend to find myself not agreeing with portions of it anymore, I still uphold the holidays it has utterly burned into my head as tradition. If you have not been exposed to Catholicism, November first and second are days held in remembrance for those who have passed before us. All Saint's Day and All Souls Day are the Catholic's, by their own standards, less macabre way to honor deceased loved ones. There is usually a huge church service, people sing the names of saints, and a major portion of the mass is directly focused on petitions of prayer to those we love who have passed on before us.
When I was born, everything in the world was perfect - I had all my family I ever knew surrounding me, and there was no pain or any loss. It seems though, upon me being brought into the world, everyone else had to suddenly leave to 'make room'. All of my grandparents, except one, were taken from me all within a quick, four-year span of my life. When other kids had to choose who they wanted to come for grandparents day, I didn't get a choice. And while I still love and am completely thankful for my remaining grandmother dearly, I still feel robbed and raped of a proper, classical, childhood and grandparent relationship upbringing that all my peers got to experience.
And now, she has dementia. Both grandfathers, Papa and Pope, and she are essentially gone - my only, loving, free spirit grandmother is trapped within a shell of her body not really remembering the life we even had together anymore. And while I did at least got to spend some time and have a vague recollection of my grandfathers, my other grandma, the one my mom always referred to as my "grandma in heaven" was somehow the loss that stung the most to me. I knew her in the recesses of my mind, but I never really knew her in reality - I was frankly, too young. I made up and created a picture of her from what my two-year-old mind could compose along with what everyone always told me about her. But why did I feel such a strong connection to her?
Despite the recent passing of Senator John McCain, I'm pretty sure close to no one has even heard of or touched upon the rare brain cancer called Glioblastoma Multiforme. Mostly older people acquire it out of nowhere and pass away within a few months of their initial diagnosis. Unfortunately, my other grandma was no exception to the powerful rate of decay this cancer causes an ultimately and untimely, succumbed to it.
Dorothy Mae Colletti, my "grandma in heaven", was the daughter of a successful tailor and his wife who immigrated to Northeast Ohio from Italy in the early 1910s through New York. As many newcomers to America, she and her huge family dropped all of their ethnicity at the boat and adopted Americanized names for them and their offspring and only learned English. All of my grandmother's culture and Italian identity was eradicated to fit the societal standards at the time so she could live her best life possible, without the horrible discrimination that was happening to a lot of Italian Americans. She only knew a select few words and phrases in Italian, and she's the reason I have learned and adopted it as my second language today; I want to give back to her what she never knew - her true Italian culture, even if I am a little watered down by a few other ethnicities.
She was a kind woman, and always put her family first. She always called the house when it snowed to make sure everyone got home safe, she loved animals like they were people, and she most importantly adored and worshiped all of her grandchildren. All of them got to fully experience and grow up with her it seems...except me. I was robbed of that experience by her evil cancer that never wanted her youngest to have that equal opportunity.
Her cancer progressed fast and being the rather admiral, vain woman she was, my grandmother stayed home most of the time and babysat me with my Papa while undergoing treatment. She, like the majority of our family, had a lot of pre-existing back issues, and it was getting harder to pick me up as I grew. She would always keep me downstairs in the green-carpeted, wood paneled family room, put me in my little canvas crib area, and let me watch a variety of juvenile shows and movies. I caught on fast, and I flew through words she tried to teach me. She always called me her 'smart cookie' and told my mom I would do great things. She loved watching me turn into a young girl, and she was fearful when she was bedridden over who would be my caretaker when she was gone. "I won't get to see Michelle grow up", she said to my mom while in the final days at the hospital, as I am told. My mother reassured her and told her she would find a way.
And she did, at probably one of the lowest points in my life.
Middle school is such a rough time for any young girl growing up because the people are vicious - even more so when you were in the same classes with the same people from pre-kindergarten through eighth grade in a tiny, Catholic school. Tensions rose, and if you didn't want to be someone's friend and wished to try something different, you were ostracized to sit alone and no one wanted to associate with you.
Between the bullies and not really fitting in because of the eclectic tastes that I now have learned to embrace, I was struggling with my body image growing up as well. I was one of the first girls to get their period and was teased. I had a middle part, dark rim glasses (that I thought were adorable, but were certainly not), and in eighth grade, the dreaded braces were put on my teeth. I had no real friends, I didn't look like the "friends" I had (and looking back, I'm glad I didn't), and furthermore, I thought my self-worth and value as confirmation that my appearance was indeed okay, was within being in a 'relationship' with the same recycled three boys that went through my class. That is when I started to develop severe anxiety and depression - moreover, because of my own evaluation of myself that was distorted by bullies, media, and other outside sources that I tried to exactly match but couldn't because I still loved my individuality. It was a war inside my head.
High school came, I had friends, and that all went down the toilet when I broke my back in a volleyball tournament while coming down from a kill. I felt a pop and a sharp pain one day and didn't tell anyone so I could continue to play into my offseason. My hitting was getting terrible, and evidently, I had a much harder time getting previously on a team as a hitter, so I went to setter. My back was completely broken at this point, and I continued to play on it. The pain was excruciating, but my dreams were to play in college. Finally, I got up to hit again, and about an hour away from home at another tournament, it snapped. I couldn't walk. The back brace went on, I could no longer play, and I was outcasted again because I no longer could relate to the people I had entered high school with.
In middle school is when she first appeared to me, in a dream, just talking about life. My grandma and I knew it was her form the vague look I had of her in my mind, essentially became my therapist in my dreams. All we did was talk. She wanted to know everything and to allow me to talk about and through the rough patches. I kept this to myself for about a year before I even told my mom, out of fear that she would think I was going insane. She was shocked and that's when she had told me about how my grandma would "find a way" to see me grow up. This was honestly like confirmation to her about the other side.
It wasn't until I told her about the room I was always in that my mom figured it might be just a dream. A light blue room, a door at the side, and I were in a bed that was built into the wall with little white railing on the side to keep me from falling out. When she would come in, a white light would pour in briefly from behind her. "Michelle - that's my old room," my mom said, shocked at what I told her. With her back and her illness - I was never up there, up the stairs, before and even so, I would've never remembered it in that big of detail for the brief time I might have been.
My senior year of high school, I took an elective psychology course and one day, during our Sigmund Freud unit, the brother that taught the class at the time pulled out his dream analysis book. I didn't have many friends to lose anyway, so I openly raised my hand and for the first time outside of someone from my family hearing, I told him about the dreams I was having - despite that same, persistent fear of people thinking I was probably crazy. He searched the color of the room in particular, as I told him the whole story behind how my grandma would find a way to see me. Sigmund Freud analyzed so many dreams and out of all the colors in the rainbow - light blue stood out as his color as a sign for communication. His mouth, and about half the room's mouths as well, all dropped. That was my confirmation.
That solidified it all for me. I knew it wasn't just a random recurring dream; it meant something.
This went on for years, all the way through my senior year and even now, but it doesn't happen as often as I've become a much more carefree woman who knows how to keep her anxiety and depression in check. I still see her in dreams, and sometimes I'll even feel
Before a big exam, whenever I'm driving, or if I'm having an anxiety attack, I always smell lilac, almost instantly. I'll feel a warmth come in the air, and only around me, a concentrated floral perfume will immediately fill the air. Her favorite flowers were lilacs and roses, exactly like my other grandmother, and so I even have a tattoo in remembrance for both of them. I haven't heard of a disapproval of the ink, either. I guess we all share the same flower now.
That is how I know my grandma is always near me. Whereas everyone else got to experience her in life, I get to experience and cherish her in an even different way as I continue to grow up. I kept this to myself for years and only recently began telling the family. The things I'll describe always relate to something regarding her always to a tee and it's always like a reassuring pat on the back from her that she's watching over.
My grandma is my guardian angel, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
