Samantha
Conclusion
My Nana had been in ICU for the last week of her life so when she asked to see Samantha, I couldn’t say no. I drove home and got her, packing her gently into a big yellow purse I had. I remember it was October, right before Halloween, and the kids were still at school. The house was empty but the kitchen window had been left open, and so there was a whistle that echoed throughout the rooms and a chill greeting you at the door. I now know that chill was me; my own awareness of what would soon be happening – Nana’s impending death.
I remember thinking at the hospital, as family came in and out saying their last good-byes, that all I wanted was to just get away, get some fresh air, and by getting that fresh air I was getting a new life, I was getting a healthy Nana.
I have many times felt tremendous guilt over wanting my Nana to hurry up and die – or as society says, “Find Peace.” Watching someone die is a slow process and hard to watch. And in an extremely selfish way, all you want is for their suffering to end – because it means yours can begin to end as well. The process of dying was a terrible limbo for Nana to be trapped in. She was not quite alive enough, but not yet dead. Dying puts the mourning on hold, like the lump in your throat that exists right before you begin to cry and while you’re struggling to hold back tears.
Nana waited for death like she waited in line at the grocery store – impatiently. She made enemies of her nurses by making numerous daily complaints about their attitudes (claiming it was because she was Mexican and they were white) and when I told her she needed to make friends with them she said, “No I don’t. I’m the one dying. They should make friends with me.” When Nana said this, I half expected her to sternly point her thumb at herself as she said “me” while scowling.
I smuggled Samantha into the ICU, and typical of her breed, she nestled up against Nana as if she were the one in pain. My Nana soothed Samantha, “Were they being mean to you, baby?” Nana asked, they, meaning me.
“No, Nana. No one’s been mean to your damn dog.” Tears are a sign of weakness in Nana’s family; attitude is strength.
“Are the dogs scaring her?” Nana’s scowl was an interrogation.
My husband and I had big, tough, guard dogs, and Nana believed Samantha was abused by every living creature. In reality, Samantha growls at every other living creature, tries to bite children, steals cookies away from babies, attacks puppies, and shits anywhere she smells another dog.
“No, Nana. She’s fine.”
Samantha begins to whimper and cry. She sounds like a cat in heat - long meowing cries, almost inhuman. Nana pets her and kisses her. Nana’s mouth is decaying and Samantha’s breath always smells like she plugs her nose in her asshole at night for warmth. Nana kisses Samantha and Samantha licks Nana’s mouth. Both friends seem not to notice the other’s odor. I have to turn away. Tears are a sign of weakness.
“Keep Samantha in the house and keep your dogs outside,” Nana orders. The IVs move in rhythm with Nana’s arms, as if they were extensions I never noticed before.
“Ok, Nana.” No way in hell am I letting the dogs freeze just so Samantha can sleep comfortably with her nose in her own ass.
My mom had given me a head’s up, but, in the midst of everything that had to be done, I had forgotten to stay on my toes about what Nana had been planning.
“Samantha wants to live with you. Your Tata will step on her in the middle of the night on his way into the kitchen.”
Immediately, I envisioned my big, fat, clumsy Tata, addicted to food, stumbling around in the middle of night probably half asleep, and suddenly tripping and nearly falling over something, which, in the light of day, would turn out to be a little black lump of road kill, with a nose that smelled slightly of its own asshole, and wearing some sort of small blue dress.
I couldn’t say no. This was what made Nana’s last year her favorite. She got whatever she wanted – more than usual. I knew I would say yes.
“Why does Samantha wanna live with me? She doesn’t even like me.” Now Nana had me believing that Samantha could communicate with her. My Nana had me convinced that she was Dr. Doolittle.
“Oh, she loves you,” as if on cue, Samantha’s big googley eyes pop out from under the thin hospital blankets. Samantha begins to cry as if to say, don’t let the big fat man trample me in a hunger induced stampede!
“Please take her,” Nana looks into my face, searching for weakness, and is pleased that I am strong. Like she is. The word “please” seems to hang in the air. No one thinks about just how genuine that word is, and it is the only time I can remember ever hearing Nana say it. Please. Please don’t die. Please.
“Fine. I’ll take the little shit-breath. You better hope the dogs don’t eat her! They might mistake her for a rat.” I am not weak. Attitude is strength. Give me strength.
I looked at Nana, one good last time. I didn’t want to stare, because I knew she was self-conscious about what the illness had done to her appearance. She had my aunt
constantly attending to her hair. She tried, desperately, to avoid possessing a “flat spot” even though she was bed ridden. Nana looked old, and dark, and wrinkled, and frail. Suddenly, more than anything else in the world, I wanted to be five years old again. I wanted to go back in time and start life all over again. I wanted my Nana. The night my Nana died I cradled Samantha and sobbed into her fat little body all night long.
*
That Saturday Samantha ran around McMillan Family Funeral Home in her blue outfit. Smelling like she had just feasted on a baby’s dirty diaper. Nana had an open casket, but I didn’t go near it. There was a body inside, it looked like Nana.
After Nana was buried, everyone had to help with taking care of the house. It was a cold process - removing the remnants of a human being from a house that she brought to life. It was as if the house had died with Nana, as if the cancer had spread and now the house was a shell. Tata couldn’t live there anymore, or else he too, would be infected. In the end, Nana’s death would have a domino effect on everything she had come in contact with; her plants (which covered every inch of the house) had shriveled and died within a week of her own death, making the house look even more ominous, and sad, even more sick and cursed.
A week later many of Nana’s favorite things were dispersed to a lucky few. My family didn’t have money. It wasn’t like in the movies where wills are read and people are awarded expensive extravagant things like islands, castles, and treasure maps leading to real treasure - in fact Nana didn’t even have a will, there was just a letter she had written to Tata. My mom got Nana’s Frank Sinatra collection. It consisted of Frank’s pajamas, cards her and Tata were given on holidays, pictures of the Sinatras with Nana and Tata, and other items filled with e-bay potential. My husband received Nana’s best cooking appliances, they shared a hatred for each other but a love for cooking. A couple of my cousins got a small piece of jewelry each; another cousin got a dress from the 70’s. Later, Tata revealed to me that Nana said I was her favorite, her most special, we laughed and cried at that and I told him that I already knew that. I told him that I knew I was his favorite too. He also told me that she had wanted me to have whatever I wanted and I told him I had already gotten it. I received Nana’s most prized possession and the thing she loved the most. I had Samantha.
