Yiayia's Journey Part 26

On Christmas Eve of 2004, my grandmother Yiayia braced for the worst moment of her long life. On what was supposed to be a joyous occasion, that horrible hourglass sifted the last grains of sand for her beloved daughter Anastasia. 

Stricken with cancer, the once joyful Anne lay clinging to life in a lonely hospital room. An hour away from Yiayia s 'little pink house with the red door', the family gathered to say a gut wrenching goodbye.

Searching for the words to thank my dear aunt for her infinite love ~ I told her a story about a boy I met in Dallas. And though now blind and unable to speak, my Thea Anne squeezed my hand. Again and again. As if to say, "Go on, sweetie." And so gathering my courage, I declared, "He's wonderful Thea. And I'm going to marry him." For I wanted her to know that the niece she loved would be taken care of after she departed.

Just minutes before Christmas Day ~ the priest arrived to deliver last rites. And yet still, my beloved Thea clung to life. For the entirety of Christmas Day, Thea Anne would not die. It was as if she refused to forever taint the memory of that holy day for us.  And so on December 26th a stoic Yiayia sat by her daughter's side. Took her hand. And gave her beloved Anne one final instruction. In her native Greek she said, "Anastasia. It's not Christmas Day anymore. It's okay to go now. We will be okay. My sweetheart, you can go now." 

And a few hours later ~ the little girl who never knew a stranger, the first in our family to graduate from college ~ dutifully obeyed her mother. And yet in doing so she tested the very limits of my Yiayia's endurance: she preceded her to Heaven.

In honor of Thea Anne, my parents and I journeyed to our beloved homeland of Greece six months later. And that boy I'd told her about came along too. For there, on our ancestral island of Kythera ~ near the platia where my grandfather first glimpsed Yiayia decades ago ~ that boy asked my father for my hand in marriage.

So on January 14th, 2006, a grieving Penelope Conomos grabbed her clutch. Locked the door. And journeyed to church. For inside those sacred walls, her granddaughter Alexa was to marry in a Greek Orthodox ceremony so very like her own 75 long years ago.

After I kissed my grandmother at the wedding reception, I looked deeply into her eyes and was devastated by what I saw. Her sparkle - gone. Her laughter - silenced. And with great sadness, I realized the former village girl - who'd always danced to celebrate 'the life' ~ even in all of its imperfections ~ would break Greek tradition that night. To my utter regret, Yiayia would not dance with me at my wedding. And I couldn't help but fear that the wonderfully witty and infinitely loving grandmother I'd always adored and revered ~ was somehow now gone forever.

Yiayia's Journey Part 27

In 2004, the once indelibly feisty Penelope Conomos - who'd courageously emigrated from Greece to America - lost her will to adapt and to endure. After her beloved daughter Anastasia died, so too did Yiayia s fighting spirit. And overnight, my wonderfully witty, ever faithful grandmother became a shell of herself.

Even the births of more great-grandchildren could not re-ignite that indelible spark. For she would often say, "I don't know why I'm still here. God doesn't want me. But the devil doesn't want me either!" At the time, we didn't take such comments to heart. But that would soon change.

For one day, Yiayia and I sat overlooking the ocean and she confided, "My Alexa. This looks so much like my homeland. I miss my mother. Too many of my people are gone. They are calling for me. I hear them calling for me." And with dread, I came to a profound, exceedingly painful realization. The longevity I'd always viewed as a blessing - had become like a curse for my Yiayia. 

And so the years passed with too few smiles and too little laughter. Until one day, the former peasant girl couldn't help but notice that her garden needed tending. Her trees - a good trimming. The gutters - a thorough cleaning. And with that, the no nonsense taskmaster awoke. She ventured into her old garage. Grabbed her trusty ladder. And got to work. 

It wouldn't be long before Yiayia s daughter Chrysanthy got a frantic voicemail from a neighbor saying, "Chrys, your mother's on her roof again!" And yet when my father recently threatened to take away her ladder, Yiayia laughed and said, "You go right ahead Tasso - I have two more." Yes, after so much pain and endurance, it seemed that sassy spitfire had finally, thankfully returned.

Nowadays, my daily phone calls with my Yiayia go like this: "Yiayia!!!!" And she will coo, "Oh my Alexa, my sweetheart!" Then me: "Whatcha doing Yiayia?  What's up with you?" And she will sarcastically reply, "Well I'm still here." And we laugh. Then ~ "When you come to see you old Yiayia " And I will say, "I miss you - soon Yiayia." And she will taunt, "Well I don't know if I'll still be here." And I will say, "Yiayia! Yes you will. Come on Yiayia " And finally, with her trademark chuckle she will concede, "Alright my Alexa. Alright. I will wait for you, my sweetie." 

And with that, I hang up the phone with a smile. And my heart is full. I marvel over that beautiful voice. Try to imagine that poor peasant girl from yesterday who journeyed from Greece in what has been a painful but incredible life. And lament that she will never truly grasp the depth of my respect and my love for her.

And so in time for her 107th birthday in March, I plan to visit that beautiful, feisty matriarch in her "little pink house with the red door." I want to gaze upon her prized '66 Dodge Dart that still lazily resides in her garage. To sit at her tiny kitchen table and laugh like we used to. And if I'm ever so lucky, to listen as she shares just one more story about "the life." Her incredible, painful, brilliant and beautiful life. I'm coming home soon, Yiayia. Wait for me.