Try Not To Laugh

I am guessing at this point that you have noticed that I sort of disappeared these last two weeks. I thought about just forging forward and never addressing it, mostly because I am not one to be described as punctual or reliable but also because I wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

My grandmother fell ill and I rushed to be with her and my family back in Canada. Please make note that “Fell ill” is a phrase I use now because I am a real woman who wears real woman supportive undergarments. It’s also my new catch phrase because saying “Fell ill” sounds more romantic, like she just fainted in a field of wildflowers only to be revived by a splash of rose water and the kiss of a real gentleman. It also makes it seem like she just fell and then swiftly stood back up, dusted herself off and made everyone pie. It also implies that everything is now fine and back to normal. But that didn’t happen and everything is still not normal. And that’s because my grandmother didn’t just “fall ill” or “fell ill” or however else Maggie Smith describes a runny nose. My grandmother had a massive stroke.

Now I would rather have diarrhea or be eliminated from The Bachelor night-one then be vulnerable and tell you how horrific this has been for my family and I but it’s the truth. I also felt weird talking about it because in some fucked up way “a stroke” doesn’t seem as horrible as other diseases like cancer. It sounds like a strong headache or something that people just “get over”. A Stroke is a band of hot guys with long hair and leather jackets not something that can change your life in a second and thrust your family into disarray. I of course realize this is a ridiculous idea and that it is clearly my anxiety talking as well as my fear of being judged and ridiculed by internet trolls. By the way @TheStaceyMcG on all social platforms.

The truth is that I have never had to really deal with something like this happening to a loved one. Not to mention someone I know and love so purely like my grandmother. She is my soulmate. So to see your favorite person in the world go from being completely independent to having to learn to walk again at 84 is, stupidly enough, indescribable. It’s everything. It’s tragic, horrible, confusing, upsetting, humbling. Its everything except funny. Which makes it completely foreign to me. Funny is how I operate. But strokes are not funny and they also don’t like mildly successful Canadian comedians with a penchant for self deprecating material. I tried everything to funny away the stroke :

“Could this hospital get anymore sanitizer!” - my dad lowers head and gets a coffee

“Holy moly, is someone going to the Grammys tonight? Cause that hospital gown is doing wonders for your figure” - Grandma is thankful she can’t really speak and forces herself to go to sleep at 1pm.

“Is that your meal or did my dog’s butt just barf on your lunch tray?” - Realize I have gone to far. Leave room. Eat a sub. It’s just okay.

My jokes couldn’t fix her. Which is bullshit. Because I am very funny. For god sakes I’m the “sad office woman who eats slippery eggs” in a McDonald’s commercial doesn’t that count for shit?! Shouldn’t that mean I get to go through life with only superficial life wounds? This stroke meant that I had to be there for people who didn’t want to laugh. Who wanted to scream, and cry, and I had to let them. I held hands longer than what is deemed "socially acceptable" , sat in silence without making a fart noise, wiped tears with my sleeve instead of grabbing a tissue, shared a car with siblings that owed me money, hated me, and who I hadn’t spoken to in far too long. I spent the night sleeping in a metal hospital chair because I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I say this not to pat myself on the back. I say this because before two weeks ago I wouldn’t have done any of those things. And that’s embarrassing. I am a dumb narcissistic actor/comedian/writer/digital-content-creator/dog-enthusiast/nervous-hat-wearer/where’s-the-farmers-market-douche-bag who lives on her phone and hides behind humor instead of being present and vulnerable. I use charm to get away with being late, use a poo emoji when I respond to a text or email 5 days after I got it, and bail last minute on plans because my sofa seems like a better companion than my best friend who once held my hair while I puked outside a KFC after a tumultuous Alliston Potato Festival (google it). That has got to change.

After two weeks with my grandmother I had to fly back to LA. Which felt gross and wrong because my grandmother couldn’t come with me nor could my parents bottomless junk food cupboard. The day I was leaving my grandmother, almost knowing how hard it was for me to go, started to roast me. She ripped me on my life choices, my bossiness, my control issues, and of course my reliance on being funny. “Oh here she goes trying to be funny again”. She kept me laughing, kept the tears at bay, and I started to forget how I was really feeling. I was comfortable. In my safe space. Then my parents left to get the car. It was just her and I. I sat close. Right beside her good ear. The left one. She told me to get back to my life, I told her I didn’t want to. She said too bad. I stood up to leave and she held my hand. I squeezed back. We both said nothing. It was quiet. She blew me a kiss. It wasn’t funny. It didn’t need to be.

My grandmother is a fighter, and is already showing doctors that being 84 is not a good enough reason to give up. Which is why I love her and strive to be like her everyday. To all my friends reading this, I love you. If you haven’t heard it in awhile, I’m sorry (said very Canadian). If we haven’t met please know that you validating this little blog by subscribing truly means the world to me and I hope you are enjoying it thus far. And if you’re a perv or weirdo, I know there’s a lot of freaky stuff on the internet so I’m thankful your kink is me. Just don’t murder me.

-The Know It All