Mormor bajs gås

Growing up I knew I had some quarks: numbers I liked, on my alarm clock, and stereo volume; chewing two items of the same snack food at a time so they would not be lonely in my stomach; compulsive truth telling so I would not go to Hell, and other religious rituals to protect me from dying in my sleep, and my family from harm; rituals before karate tournaments, which include a hearty breakfast of Coca-Cola, and beef jerky, and I had to wear thong underwear, because it was going up my butt anyway when I kicked you in the head; packing for every weather event, even though I lived in California; lifting my feet over railroad tracks, even though it almost cost me my driving test; exposure to making and receiving dreaded phone calls at jobs in my teen years and beyond; drawing hand patterns on each of my fingers and palm to be congruent, continuously throughout the day. Those are a few I remember well. 

Then came, and with the addition of my attempts at exposure: just right, hand washing, had to be done over if I had looked at a dirty thing in the bathroom; more symmetry with my hands, which now I recall as a child I was afraid they would get bored; watching my children walk through the front gate of the school before driving away; to this day, saying to my husband ‘drive safe’ before he leaves for work; we do this still without thinking, a compulsion I created- saying ‘I love you’ after leaving a room; checking that I locked the door, making a special memory each day of locking the door; attempting to undo intrusive thoughts of disaster or death with shrugs; touching the blade of a knife to ensure I was not going to chop off my own fingers; touching my forehead to corners of cabinets to ensure I was not going to bash my head on them; writing, reading, rereading, and rereading, and rereading emails and texts, for 40 minutes plus to make sure all words were exact and accurately expressed; intrusive disaster and harm thoughts, which make every outing one in which I plan my exits; unable to drive over bridges was my last straw.

In 2018, I could not longer drive over bridges.  I had always hated them but could drive over bridges even in my rigid steering wheel hold.  My grandmother could not drive on highways.  My grandmother could barely be a passenger in a car.  I recall one moment when I was about 8 years old, my younger sister was 6.  We were in the back seat and my grandfather was driving us up a mountain highway to visit his sisters for the week.  My grandmother in the passenger seat, wailing crying, yelling and pulling at his shirt, I suppose preparing us or pleading for us to not fall to our sudden death off the mountain road.  I remember sheer terror at the possibility that we were going over the edge- but my little sister was sitting beside me, looking at me.  I never asked her what she thought or remembered about this, but I recall calm coming over me, and reassuring her that we were fine.  In that moment, she was all that mattered, my focal point. 

I love my grandmother, she was a very important figure in my life.  She taught me to write by creating dotted letters that I would trace.  The first word I learned, before my own name, was poop.  P-O-O-P.  And I wrote is EVERYWHERE.  P-O-O-P. P-O-O-P.  Everywhere.  I followed her to the bathroom just so I could write.  She would listen to me speak for hours.  I do not know what I would talk to her about, but she would listen and respond like I was the most important person in the room.  We traveled to Sweden when I was 8 years old, and she spoiled me rotten, always listening to everything that crossed my mind.  She championed me, empowered me, allowed me to be assertive and vocal, allowed me to ask questions, encouraged me to be my best self.  I love her with my whole heart and soul.  I learned to say “Mormor bajs gås”- which translates to Grandmother Poop Goose.  This was hilarious, and made great sense to me.

Sadly, my grandmother’s last years were spent in her room.  I was married in June 2006, and this was the last event she attended other than Christmas that year with my encouragement.  My grandmother suffered from undiagnosed PTSD, Agoraphobia, and OCD.  I recall her world being small as she mostly stayed in her kitchen in my childhood and adolescence, and then her world shrank more, to her upstairs, and then shrank more only to her bedroom.  She died in September 2008, her last words to me were through instant message- I sent her my sonogram of my daughter, and she said, “That’s our girl.” 

I was diagnosed with OCD in 2018.  I have fear in my mind every moment of every day; I have some compulsions that I can live with, and honestly, I am fortunate to say,  many of my obsessive thoughts and behaviors have served me well, possibly because I constantly did my own exposures.   And thinking back to her, the love I have for her, and the hope I had that she would come out of that room-  I know that I cannot ever stay in the room.  I live every day of my life with the intention of being able to leave ‘my room.’  If I am afraid of it, then that is the thing I will be doing. 

At the end of my life I hope I can look back and see a life well lived, not because I was fearless, but that I lived a life without regret, courageously.  Bravery is not the absence of fear, it is the presence of fear and the perseverance to do it anyway.  Sometimes that means waking up in the morning, and facing the day- to that I say, “It’s enough.”  And Mormor bajs gås, I love you and miss you every day.  Thank you for loving and believing in me.