Debbie Lee
A nursing home in Koroit, April to July 2009
Music was the last thing to leave her.
My maternal grandma, Ivy May Houston, born Ivy May Chappell May 5 1914 died July 10, 2009. Those are the facts.
The final connection she had centred on was music. Playing the hymns she loved best (including The Old Rugged Cross and Amazing Grace) became the easiest way to convey care for her withered, wasting body. Her hands would lift in gentle motion, like the church conductors she had watched for more than 90 years. How soothed she looked; it made me think of the quiet comfort music has provided me, and the raucous joy of music so loud our bodies vibrate with its energy, the tawny thrum of possibility and the screech of wailing guitars!
She would have called that ‘noise’, of course.
The tension and energy of Paint It Black resonates for me. I tried to get Grandma to listen to it when I discovered it, via the theme song to Tour of Duty; my Dad’s favourite show.
Not surprisingly it was not the type of music that she cared for or understood.
But the song became my anthem on long commutes between Melbourne (where I worked), Ballarat (where I lived) and Warrnambool, then Koroit (where I visited Grandma).
I see a red door and I want it painted black: red, my favourite colour, becomes an insult in a world so awry.
No colours anymore I want them to turn black: the white hospital walls, the disinfectant stench, the ocean view meant to calm and soothe – the shadows converge and I want the world black.
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes/ I have to turn my head until my darkness goes: the chill, the disgust of looming loss, frighten me. I’ve witnessed death previously, but the cruelty of Grandma’s strong farmer’s hands disappearing into paper-thin veins is agony to me.
I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black: colours slip away and the blackness of my mood, my mind, filled with unkind thoughts and formless rage, trigger my shivering in an overly-warm room.
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away: grief is not embraced; it is shunned, like the homeless, unhinged for endless, unique reasons. Everything dies, but my feelings could not fit into a neat box. I felt workplace pressure to politely tick my acceptance of two days’ compassionate leave on an impersonal form, then ‘get on with it’.
Like a newborn baby it just happens every day: at the hospital, we are expected to celebrate life, enjoy the fact that ‘life goes on’. Just not for Grandma.
I look inside myself and see my heart is black: an agonising death is dealt slowly, with suffering and red-eyed terror at the injustice of losing speech, movement, dignity.
Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts: avoidance, the fluffy cloud hovering overhead, while the desire to disappear and ‘fade away’ beats in your metronome heart, like the rhythmic strumming of this song.
It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black: acceptance, loving appreciation of a life lived well; these are hard to experience when anger, rage, the black snarl of a savage dog you barely recognise, twists your ordinarily mild mind into perverted, distorted shapes. Different from depression; grief is sharp, sly, aware. It wants you to feel tarnished, like oil unable to mix with water, making you feel its greasy hug.
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue: colours everywhere, while blackness inexorably encroaches. Nothing is as it should be. Who cares if she was 95? It’s not meant to be ‘like this’. What, ever is?
I could not foresee this thing happening to you: life does not happen to a plan; it is filled with the sadness of unexpected, undignified developments. Grandma’s death struck me hard; bringing more of my thoughts into clarity, than had ever happened previously.
I want to see the sun blotted out from the sky: Black, black, black – for a grieving, raw mind.
No matter the multitude of ways I might deteriorate as I age, I remain hopeful of always having words and music to sustain me.
I hope music, like this tender song, is the last thing that leaves me too.
©Debbie Lee 2014. Debbie is an Australian writer, now based in Queensland.
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Awesome song. Love the girl yelling out from the audience before the live version.
“Paint It Black. Paint It Black you devil!”
Hey Dips, so true, so many great versions! Thanks for reading and commenting :)
Lovely story of a great song.
Was a highlight when I saw them live, although I am a still haunted by the experience. Lived in Boston for around a year in 2006. The Stones were playing the humungous Gillette Stadium for the third time that year! On the day of the concert I decided to look on ticket trading website and tickets were way below face value.
Saw an ad for someone nearby. Only issue was they were still full price.
Rang her up and haggled her down to half price ($30) – the going price on the day.
She said “I guess so… as long as someone uses them”
Went to pick them up – Seller was a mid 60’s female working as a carpark attendant.
Paid her the cash. Then started chatting. She was LOVELY.
As I started to say my goodbyes she then drops a bit of a bombshell.
“Enjoy the concert. I’m very jealous. I’ve been a massive Stones fan for my entire life. I’ve never seen them live. I then won these tickets on a radio contest. I was so excited. Only problem is they are up the back section, up 4 flights of stairs. I’ve recently been diagnosed with cancer and been undergoing chemo, so don’t think I can walk up the stairs!!!”
To this day I am mortified that I haggled her down.
The Stones were magnificent, even from the back.
Ah Ned, good on you for sharing a tale equal parts magnificent and mortification! I’d view it as a lesson well learned; you’d probably never haggle again. Thanks for reading and commenting :)
Hi Debbie,
You made me think of my grandmother.
She’s been dead a while.
Today I thought about her while polishing a chest of drawers.
I still think about her often, and that pleases me.
She made my life better.
I’m happy yours did too.
Cheers
Hey Matt,
So glad you still think about her often and that this story did that too.
Whether it is a chore, a song, a flower, all of it spells love to me.
The curiosity of memory eh!
I had a much longer anniversary of 17 years for my father’s death this week (31/10/1997) and I’m trying to write something for that too, but figure I have so many stories tied to music, shouldn’t just focus on those related to loss!
Your lovely comment has made my day Matt.
Thanks for reading :)
‘No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue’
For more than forty years I’ve sung it as ‘No more will my green seagull turn a deeper blue’.
Well you learn something new every day. Thank you.
Hello The Cleaner! I have a sad history of mondegreens too, but on StereoStories my favourite tale to date in this area is by Lisa Jewell: Edge of Seventeen . Thanks for reading and commenting; hope you enjoy her story too :)
Great writing Debbie. I recorded Rage when programmed by Deniz Tek and Jim Dickson from Radio Birdman. Jim told the story of hearing Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Whatever Happened to my Rock n Roll” for the first time. Your story reminds me of his connection to the song through a sense of loss.
On a side note, I once tried out for a band singing Paint it Black amongst others. Lost out to a kid called Richie who later went on to front Tumbleweed. I was so gutted I took up playing bass.
Thanks Gus, I’d never heard that BRMC song (to my present powers of recall anyway). Love it, very strong lyrics. I will try and track down the Radio Birdman program too; still amazes me what YouTube & Vimeo can turn up :)
I was very sorry to read about Jay Curley dying in Aug. I was a broke uni student when Tumbleweed were at their biggest, so didn’t get any albums then, but my partner grabbed some at JB a few years ago and it does take you back to the 90s.
Thanks for reading and commenting :)
“Different from depression; grief is sharp, sly, aware. It wants you to feel tarnished, like oil unable to mix with water, making you feel its greasy hug.”
Beautifully written Debbie. The Stones and Ivy would be proud.
Thanks Phil, such a kind comment.