My Nana Was An Absolute Badass

“What if there’s something in there?”

“There isn’t. You can see right through to the other side, can’t you?” 

I wasn’t convinced. And my mud-slicked knees were getting cold. 

My sister Alicia and I were kneeling at the garbage-bin-lid-sized mouth of a long dark metal tunnel. It stretched from where we stood in our neon rain boots, underneath and across to the other side of the big highway in town, where a 7-year-old and an 11-year-old weren’t allowed to be.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” She said. If I squinted, I could see some garbage, rocks the size of a loaf of bread, a thin trail of water, and maybe some glass. No promise of adventure to be found in this tunnel. For me, anyway. 

“You go first.” I knew I wasn’t getting out of this. When an older sibling asks you to do something that could cause trouble, it’s scary, but sometimes it’s scarier to face them and say no. So I got on my hands and knees and followed her in. 

The tunnel was loud. I could hear the overwhelming woosh of the cars on the highway above us. The rumble as they approached from a distance and passed by sounded threatening. My hands and knees bumped uncomfortably into the grooves of the corkscrew-shaped indents. It smelled like rainwater and animal waste. I avoided rocks, pebbles, and my intrusive thoughts to complain to my older sister. My focus stayed on the light on the other side as I tried to keep up. When we got out to the other side of the highway, we were met with an open field of tall grass. Like the other fields in Alberta full of mice and gophers, this was more of the same. 

I’m not sure if Alicia’s sense of triumph came more from the fact that we crawled through the tunnel, or that she successfully convinced me to do it. All in all, it was pretty uneventful after we made it back. 

My mother and Nana, however, did not think it was uneventful at all.

“That tunnel is for carrying rainwater to the big pond out back, not for kids! There could’ve been a coyote passing through there!” My mother was furious. I hadn’t considered a coyote sneaking around in the tunnel. I was too busy being afraid of the dark. And my sister.

My Nana, I could tell even that young, was looking stern only to appear in solidarity with my mother. I could’ve sworn she was trying to stifle a smirk in that these damn kids kind of way. She was known to have that funny, fake exasperated expression when I knew our antics amused her. She told me we could keep playing in the fields behind the house, but to be more careful, and not tell my mom so much. We both giggled as I agreed and ran away.

Nana was an “I don’t give a shit. But I won’t take your shit either.” kind of person. She was about 4’10”, if I’m being generous, and her surprisingly booming laugh would carry through the house. She married 3 times because the “third time’s the charm!” and she had loads of knick-knacks, ranging from beautiful jade stone figurines to a little glass container with a lid labelled fart in a jar.

She did a lot of grandmother-esque things. She crocheted, read a ton, cooked like no one else in the family, and she was also a talented painter. She and my Pa built these beautiful birdhouses. They were intricately painted and hoisted high in the air in a cluster to look like a quaint but magical bird resort. We’d watch the birds as they came and went. Our favourites were chickdees, and we’d call back when we heard the familiar rhythmic “chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee” song from afar.

But she also did a lot of non-grandmother-esque things. She’d hide around corners to jump out and scare us, played card games with us (for money), smoked like a chimney since she was 10 years old, and sometimes dyed her hair a soft red. 

When she was around 55, she battled breast cancer and won. I don’t remember much about the treatment at the time, but I do remember she let us play dress-up with her bra that contained one large fake breast to “even the girls out” after her mastectomy. I’d put it on over my little kid clothes and would jump up and down and laugh as it swung around my 6-year-old frame like a club. Nana would be keeled over in laughter. “Looks good on yah!” She’d say when she could catch her breath. 

Another time, a few of the cousins were having a sleepover at Nana’s, and we knew she’d let us watch a scary movie. We had to go big while we had the opportunity. We rented Takashi Shimizu’s The Grudge. I was 12 at the time, and nothing seemed scarier. We made Nana sit in the middle of us, and while we had our blankets pulled up to our eyes during the scariest bits, she was crocheting doilies, cackling away. 

“This isn’t scary! You little babies!” she threw her head back in laughter at our fear. During a particularly quiet and tense part, she paused and put down her crochet needles. And right at the crescendo of the jumpscare, she reached out and grabbed our shoulders with a shriek, to amplify the experience. We were pissed at her, but she laughed and laughed. We got over it quickly, and we collectively laughed at our tiny Nana pranking us for years afterward.

Nana also had the most beautiful, over-the-top clothing and jewelry collection I had ever seen. Nana was boujee before I had even heard of what boujee meant. She’d open her walk-in closet and we’d admire the vast rows of beautiful clothes and dresses, all the way to a few (real) fur coats at the back. Nana had seven grandchildren: six girls and one boy. When she got older, and we knew she had COPD and emphysema, she took us each into that closet and opened her beautiful jewelry box, so we could pick out one of her rings to keep after she died. 

When it was my turn, Nana said I wasn’t allowed to pick my ring. Mine had been pre-selected, and the decision was final. It was a white gold ring with a long wide face. 13 diamonds lined the top, with another 13 lining the bottom. In the middle, there were larger sapphires and diamonds in an alternating pattern. It was the most grand of all. Some of the cousins said it was gaudy, but we liked gaudy. It was the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. “You’re the only one who has the same style as me. The other kids like things a little more… plain.” She’d feign a grimace, and we’d laugh at our shared over-the-topness.

Nana dearly loved all the grandchildren, but our bond felt special. She went with us when I got my 12th-grade graduation gown, and she grabbed the bill for only mine because I was the only one who had the sense to go for the ballgown. When we’d take long walks outside with her and her dogs, we came in for the post-walk tea party, and I had a special teacup. She taught me how to embroider, and my favourite spot in the world was to be squeezed nice and snug with her in her giant Lay-Z-Boy as we rocked back and forth and embroidered and crocheted for hours, watching America’s Most Wanted. 

I think we just understood each other in a special way. We come from a family with quite a few introverts, but she was loud and sassy, and I was loud and sassy. I liked to hang out near her and make smart-ass remarks to make her laugh. I was her shadow. I followed her around while she painted, read, or baked her mouth-watering homemade bread. 

Eventually, the cigarette smoking caught up with her. She’d tried several times over the years to quit, but it never stuck. A few times, she went into respiratory arrest and landed in the ICU, unable to breathe on her own. 

When conscious, she’d have to resort to a pen and paper to speak with us, because of the thick tube down her throat. 

I don’t want to live like this anymore, one of the notes said. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be. It was the same handwriting from my little Nana, whose recipe books we had poured over for years. Same writing as the love you written in so many birthday cards. But now, Nana was tired of the ICU. Tired of the tubes, wires, ambulances, and the waiting at death’s door. She wanted to go. 

We knew when we had reached the last stint in the ICU. The extended family was gathered up in the dimly lit hospital waiting room, and it was time for everyone to say goodbye. 

I walked into the room with my sisters. She looked bloated, but still so tiny in that hospital bed. I could see the subtle movement of her breath rising and falling, but she was unconscious. 

I took her warm little hand in mine. It was so soft. I didn’t know if she’d be able to hear me but I had to try. 

I thanked her for everything I could think of. For the baking, for teaching me how to embroider, for showing me I can be loud and sassy. I thanked her for warm cuddles in the rocking chair, for tea, endless games of dress-up, and for taking all of our quarters during card games. I thanked her for every laugh, every teasing joke, and for the way she told me I better be unapologetically myself. 

I think about her all of the time. When you miss someone you love, you see reminders of them everywhere. My Nana was a badass. I see her in diamonds, practical jokes, crochet doilies, and The Grudge.