50,000 Miles And a Visit From Gram

Rolling around the suburbs of Chicago today, I was surprised to look down and see the odometer eeking towards 50,000 miles. I had to count backwards in my head, and then again on my hands, to see how many years we have owned the soccer-mom, kid-toting, dog-hauling mini-van. Not even three years yet.

I look in the reflector mirror to see Evan konked out in his car seat, sleeping comfortably like a sack of potatoes uprooted after a sharp turn, as only as a slouched over toddler can enjoy. Was it really only 50,000 miles ago that Evan went from sweet infant son to glorified dog rescuing assistant? I think back to the hundreds and thousands of jaunts in this car, and think, my God, how much we've both grown as these wheels have turned.

The stained floormats show 50,000 miles worth of dropped bottles, juice from overly grippy hands on a juice box, summer sun melted fruit snacks embedded into carpet fibers (those don't come out no matter how hard you scrub), and the slight tint of green to one cup holder where a crayon from T.G.I. Friday's met its demise one August afternoon in a parked car. The dog hair sticks to all surfaces, so much that no lint roller can de-hair it completely, and I can remember the hundreds of four-legged passengers whose lives have literally been saved by a trip in our mini-van. Evan can name probably a hundred of them, and just today, named the newest saved life that clamored into the front seat and passed out from the sheer exhaustion of being out of the pound environment... finally.

Memories from Evan's first real road trip with all the dogs piled in the back, to being carted back and forth to friends' houses, excursions to new places and old, holidays and family trips, they are all rolled up into those 50,000 miles. I can't believe how quickly the miles add up or how quickly they roll right past. I thought by now there would be two car seats in that minivan, and with life just getting eaten up with each stretch of road, I can feel the pressure of time welling up and around me. Yesterday Evan asked if I was going to have a baby. I said, no, not right now, why- do you want a baby? And he said, quite indignantly, no, babies are stinky. Right. I should remember that.

A couple weeks ago, as Evan spent one of his last days in summer camp, I was driving alone, thinking those deep alone thoughts when life is not completely interrupting your every train of thought, when I simply looked up and said out loud, Gram, we need your help. We need a baby, and God hasn't answered any prayers with a yes thus far, so how about a little help here? Because if anyone is willing to help us, it's you. I knew she heard me, somehow, and went on about the day.

A few days later, Gram visited in a dream for the second time since she died. Now some of you might argue that it was a sub-conscience response to my prayer the other day. I beg to differ. Because for the first time ever, I woke up sobbing. I'll give you the short version of the dream:

Hubby and I are at a party, and I'm feeling inferior to the women at the party. They are young, they are beautiful- they are curvy, fertile beings that I am not. Hubby grabs the hand of a young woman of a goddess-like state, and they disappear into a room. I am not concerned, and feel as if I deserve this. Everyone around me is drunk, so I disappear into a room to soak my worries away in a bubble bath. Hubby appears, and tries to get frisky, until I remember him slipping away into a room with Fertile Myrtle. I shoot him down, dress and go back to the party, where it has now become a family function. Everyone is still drunk. Oddly enough, everyone there is from my dad's family, and I sit between my brother and my cousin, who are talking loudly and obnoxiously as I look on. At a table across the room, my eyes stop and take a second to register that my Gram is sitting at the table, looking pre-stroke disheveled, but still wearing her lipstick, hair brushed upward to defy gravity (with the help of much hairspray) and bright eyed. I jump up and grab her hand, and pull her into my other Grandma's bedroom (oddly enough, the party scene changed to my still-living Grandma's house). I say, What are you doing here!?! And I hug her like an insane person who holds onto the thing they love most in this world before drowning into an abyss. I am sobbing hysterically and loudly, but not so loud that I cannot hear her say, "I can't stay long." My aunt and my cousin come in, and we are all hugging her tightly, and I say incredulously, "You can see her?" and my aunt replies, "of course I can see her!". That's when I look at my Gram from where I am holding onto her, and see that she is now wearing a beautiful white flowing gown, and her hair is long, curly and golden to the point that it has a glow to it. I cling to her tightly with the realization and wake up. Sobbing.

The emotion attached to those words, "I can't stay long" are like some sort of mantra in my head. I can hear her, and the sound of hope and distress at the same time in her voice. I know that her transformation was angel-like, and it makes my heart leap. I know I was sobbing because she came, when I needed her more than ever, when my time on this earth became too burdensome for a moment, she appeared and lifted me up. I don't think she was answering my prayer, just reassuring me that she is here and there and everywhere I need her to be. But it also reminded me of those miles, eating away at the road and leaving so many memories behind.

These days, these are the ones I'm going to want back. The sweet words from Evan, the defiant yelling, the little giggles, the jokes, the back talk. I'm going to want it all back, and it will be tomorrow when I will look up from my death bed and wonder where all the time went. I'll wonder what I did with my time, with all of those days that seemed to stretch in front of us- poof, they'll be gone, just like that. 50,000 miles are already behind us, and I want to rejoice in the ones ahead. Instead, days like today, I'm reminded to just focus on the miles today. Tomorrow's will come no matter what, and I want to be able to remember all of the them- the tedious, the exhausting, the joyful. The road seems long, but it's not. It's far too short.

Thanks, Gram. I needed that.