Statement Begins

dreams of lost years

This was a submitted statement by  @puredeparture

TW: death of a family member, mention of murder

Statement of Tania Sutton, regarding her great-grandmother and her wartime companion.

Statement Begins,

I was never close with my mother’s family. We would occasionally drive 3 hours to see them for holidays, and I’d get a phone call on my birthday if I was lucky. Besides that, contact was limited near non existent. Fortunately, I was at an age where I didn’t mind. All I needed was a stuffed animal and a pet. I didn’t need or crave that sort of familial intimacy. Thus, my great-grandmother falling ill was never a concern for me. In fact, I barely understood what it meant. All I knew was that my mother would spend more time crying on the phone than she usually did. Being sick was not something I knew about, or understood. The only thing I would use it for was an excuse. If I wanted an extension on a project, or needed an excuse to get out of hanging out with friends, all I needed to say was that my great-grandma had gotten worse, and we needed to be there for her.

We went to see her. As she laid dying in her hospital bed. I couldn’t really comprehend death yet, so I merely rambled about my latest obsession for nearly an hour. I believe it was frogs at the time. Considering the circumstances, there wasn’t much else I could have done.

I think it was because of that. That hour I spent with her, a mere raindrop in her lake of twisted and contorted memories. She must have latched on to, as her brain ate itself from the inside out. There is no other explanation, the dying woman must have held onto the last fleeting moment of normalcy she had in the days before her timely demise. If I would’ve known that, I don’t think I would dare to say a word to her in those final days. 

It started simple. I would dream of an elderly woman with a kind smile and welcoming hug sitting under a tree in a flowered knoll. I would sit with my grandmother on a woven picnic blanket as she recounted tales of her youth. Sometimes, she’d tell me about family recipes I had never gotten to experience, or show me photos of myself that I don’t remember being taken.

Every time I dreamt of her, the first person I would tell would be my mother. I don’t think I’ll never be able to forget the fear in her eyes as I told her about what my deceased relative had told me. She would look like it was something bad. That it wasn’t a good thing. How could she think me experiencing lost family traditions is a bad thing? I was living out the childhood I deserved. I got to do everything I should’ve been able to do when my great-grandmother was still alive. How could that be bad? I thought she wanted that for me. She didn’t have to feel guilty about never being there for her grandmother, because I was there to do it for her. She didn’t have to feel guilty about the fact that when she finally visited the woman who practically raised her, it was already too late to say anything meaningful, or anything that she’d even remember, because I could say it for her. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

Then, the dreams started to change. Suddenly, the dreams weren’t as happy as they used to be. The perfect blue sky was washed over by bleak clouds, blocking out the sun until the flowers withered and the tree lost its perfect leaves. There were no more aging photo albums, or nice picnics. Only sad smiles, and increasingly morose childhood memories. Soon, I didn’t even dream of the field. I dreamt of the dingy hospital room my great-grandmother died in. The sound of birds singing was replaced by ragged coughs and monotonous beeping. I would sit in the small, plastic chairs by my great-grandmother’s bed. Swinging my legs back and forth to the beat of the heart monitor.

What she said changed too. I couldn’t go to bed without having to hear about terrible things my family had done. My great-grandmother’s voice felt like sandpaper in my ears as she told me about the times my mother would disappoint her. I’d wake up, and instead of telling my mother about a new meatball recipe, I’d remind her that she never came home for Christmas. I’d remind her that, rather than visiting her family she’d stay at her campus to go make out with boys and trashy frat parties. Do you remember that mom? That’s what I’d ask her. Do you remember? Of course, she remembered. Memories like those were what made her cry on the phone before her grandmother’s death.