Seeing Sony

When I was a little girl I was secretly enthralled with Sony.  Every time she came around my curious little eyes followed her every move.  She was cool.  

Sony and I are first cousins, and even though she's the same age as my mother, I relished the idea that we were of such close relation, that I fit in her crowd, that she was my family.  She seemed mysterious.

I loved and looked up to most everything about my Sony, but I tried not to let on.  I loved the way she could take a pencil and a piece of paper and make art in minutes.  I loved the way she wasn't ever totally satisfied with her creations.

I loved the way she looked deep into my eyes when she talked to me and the almost raspy quality of her voice.  I found it lovely the way she poised herself as she lifted her cigarette in her hand, inhaled, and kept on talking.

Most of all I think I loved the way that she was always there; even when I grew up her cards or well-wishes via Daddy or gifts were always reminders that she had remembered me.

My Sony and Me: Easter 2012

I remember the first time Sony wore a cane to Christmas.  I think it was pink with flowers because of course she wouldn't have some plain old cane, but it still nearly broke my confused little heart.  I knew she had MS, but I wasn't ready for it to be taking over.

Not too long ago we almost lost Sony.  She had a heart attack--massive.  We were here in the states, her family--absent, and she was there in Montreal--dying.  Every one of my moments was consumed with thoughts and prayers and bargains for her life to keep on going until we could see her one last time.  Because I didn't know if Daddy could make it, and I didn't know if her husband, Fern, could make it, and I didn't know if I could make it.

None of us had to make it, though, because she made it for us.  She carried through, and even though her quality of life is diminished and there probably are more not-so-great moments than fabulous ones, she soldiers on, and that is why I still love my Sony.

Mama, Sony, and Daddy: Easter 2012

Seeing her was hard.  Harder than hard.  Sadder than sad.  Seeing her was heart wrenching because I remember my Sony who was never without a cigarette or a laugh, my Sony who talked with her hands and her head and her eyes; her essence was in her movement, and now she's stuck.  Stuck in the bed, and she isn't getting out.  It broke my confused little heart all over again but with all different reasons. 

Our coming was a secret.  Fern left the apartment to go get some people downstairs he told her.  She didn't know the people downstairs were her family all the way from Arkansas: her uncle who's only a little older than she is and her aunt who's her same age and her cousin who's young than her child and her cousin's husband whom she hasn't seen in years.

As we were walking in I think I was holding my breath out of anticipation for what would happen next.  Fern entered first, then Daddy, then me, then Mama, then Hub. 


Single file line.  


We all walked in and surrounded her bed with hi theres and how are yous and anxious little giggles, and after a minute, after we had time to be really afraid that she didn't know us or what was happening, she said

I'm so happy.

And her eyes lit up like they used to, and she smiled a big Sony smile that overtook her whole being. And those three words with those lit up eyes and that gigantic smile made the anxiety and the anticipation and the grief and the tears and worry all worth it because there, in that hospital bed, was my Sony, and I was getting to see her again.






P.S.  This is day six of my twenty-one day blogging adventure.  So far, so good.  Then again, it is only day six. . . .