Sweet Catastrophe

This is going to be a long post. I apologize to my LiveJournal friends for the amount of space I’m sure it’ll fill on your page. I apologize also, for the cut at the end, which won’t translate over to LJ and will make it that much longer. But I need to write this all down for myself.

I was born on November 26, 1985–my maternal grandfather’s Birthday. On Christmas of 1986, he passed away–cirrhosis of the liver, caused by hepatitis. It’s no wonder, then, why I was always so attached to Papa Lott. Everyone used to joke that I didn’t like my grandmother when I was little, but that just wasn’t totally true, I just had a severe preference for Papa. Ya see, grandmothers, well, those were fully in stock, but grandfathers? He was the last one on the shelf.

I’m thankful to have so many memories with him. My first tackle box was one of his old ones. I remember the peanut-shaped indention on the top where something had melted into it out in the bait shed. I remember him and Daddy both, teaching me how to cast a reel. Papa started me on picking up pecans and taught me how to tell if they were good or not. He always sold my pecans for the highest amount he could get away with, and never kept a penny.

He taught me my first joke, and how to draw a chicken, and a 3-d box.

I got my chap stick obsession from him. He always had a cherry tube in his shirt pocket, and I always had to have it.

After Momma went back to work, when I’d get sick at school, Papa and Grandma would pick me up. They’d make a little bed for me in the front of the boat and I’d lie there, eating nilla wafers, waiting for Papa to hook a catfish and let me reel him in.

I spent countless hours in his living room, listening to records, and acting out the lyrics for him–riding a plastic horse and pretending to be Dolly Parton. I was his little country singing star.

I had such a strong bond with that man. I was his sweetheart, his darlin. I was somewhat of a ‘favorite.’ I was the last grandchild. He always exclaimed, “There she is!! There’s Jade Lott,” when I walked in the door.

The last time he was in the hospital, we knew we were on the road to the end. At the time, we thought he wouldn’t make it out of the hospital, and there’ve been too many times to count since then when we thought we were at the end. That’s part of what’s been so hard about this. I feel like I’ve lost him 5 times in one year.

Watching him slowly slip away was so hard. I hated getting to that point where I could look at him sleeping, and just know that my old papa wasn’t really there anymore. Even before that, every time we spoke, he spoke to me as if he was trying so hard to tell me everything, in case that was it.

Thanksgiving was…rough. I sat with my grandmother for two hours, talking about how this was all affecting her. When she started talking of the arrangements they’d already made, it was just too much. That’s when I learned we’d never even find out what the cause of all of this was.

On my dad’s side of the family, there are tons of us, so it’s really hard to get the full story on anything. Everyone attempts not to tell one person the same thing repeatedly, so inevitably, things get left out. So I don’t know the solid reason why he couldn’t be X-rayed, or taken back to the hospital for other tests. I just know that we don’t actually know what was wrong, and I’m confident that the right decision was made in not pushing it. This is when my grandmother told me of her theories, and that she wouldn’t let them autopsy him when he was gone. She didn’t want him cut up. That word, autopsy—what a cold word when you’re talking about someone who’s still here.

Sunday morning I clocked in at 8. There were a few no-shows, and the schedule wasn’t set up quite right so lunches had to start early, while we were still slow enough to deal with missing someone. I had to go at 10, and when I came back, I had just put on my vest when the caller id showed my grandmother’s house. I knew I needed to answer. Sherri told me that he was much worse, and that everyone was heading over. For a moment, I didn’t really know what to do. We’d already had so many false alarms, but then I started shaking and I knew that even if I didn’t go home, I would be no good at work with spontaneous bursts of tears.

The rest of the day was just a mess. Melony was supposed to bring me two couches, but there wasn’t going to be anyone here so I had to arrange with her to leave them outside. I ended up with one (not both) couches out in a light rain because boys are really dumb.

Use your imagination to paint the scene at my grandparents of people coming and going, basically saying goodbye. Grandma finally went to take a nap so I snuck away to see Jesalyn and Joshua for a bit, and let Rocky Joe know what was going on.

When I got back, my cousin Barbara, was getting ready to walk with a few of the kids down to a park, so I walked back to the car to get my sunglasses. Then, for only the second time in my life, I locked my keys in. I knew it immediately, and just decided to go to the park and relax, and deal with it when we got back.

Douglas is a small town, so cops will actually come out and try to unlock your car for you, so we called and the cop came out, but no luck. So a friend of Daddy’s came out and well, long story short, he scratched up and dented up and just generally jacked up my door frame trying to get in. In the process, someone, two someones, I don’t know who, came outside and yelled for me and Daddy and told us he was gone. There were people in the room immediately before. Daddy had just walked out– he went in to borrow the flashlight next to Papa’s bed. He was breathing then. Not two minutes later, Grandma was compelled to walk in and saw that he was gone. He waited to be alone.

David got to my lock and pressed it, and nothing happened. Repeat on the passenger door. The cop activated the security system that shut down my locks. Could’ve been worse–we thought he may have sliced the wire that works the locks, as happens often with my type of car. It was clear that Daddy wasn’t up for driving all the way to Valdosta and back–I think he had been to Jacksonville twice in a day or something, I don’t really know, but anyway, I was struggling to find someone to meet us halfway with my spare key. I finally got in touch with Catie, thank God for her, she agreed to meet up and then I just had to figure out how I was getting there. We decided I would drive grandma’s car, but with my license locked in my car, and not being familiar with it, not to mention the heartbreak in progress, I just really wasn’t comfortable with that.

As Uncle Danny was showing me how to move the seat, I stopped and said, “Wait a minute…I DO have a momma…” So I called and she came to pick me up. We met Catie a little over halfway and I finally left Douglas, knowing the week was just beginning.

In case you didn’t know, this is finals week for me. Monday morning, I had to do the oral portion of my Spanish final exam. I somehow managed a 100 out of that. Stress was prominent throughout Monday. Last I knew, Aunt Helen was trying to get Grandma to schedule the funeral for Wednesday, instead of Tuesday. Wednesday was the scheduled day for the final we’ve been explicitly told we can’t take at any other time for any other reason. I didn’t get all that settled until 2, but it was straightened.

The funeral ended up being Tuesday. I didn’t make it to the viewing on Monday; I found out too late. There’s not really much to say about the funeral. If you’re not from the south, you probably aren’t familiar with this custom, but in the south, when you see a funeral procession, you pull over until they pass. I was driving my dad close to the head of the line, and there was something very oddly comforting in seeing car after car, even semis, pulling over for us.

I’m sure there’s so much more I want to say, but I just can’t find all the words. I’d like to share though, a ‘poem’ my aunt had in the paper back in 2001. It shares a bit about Papa’s life, and some of the things he’d been through up to that point. Again, for those on LJ, I’m sorry that this won’t be behind a cut for you.

(This was formatted very poorly in the paper so punctuation and capitalization are pretty crazy.)

October 28, 2001

In 1926 on an April spring morn, a big bouncing baby boy was born. John Joseph Lott was his given name, And the world would never more be the same. “Sweetie” Catherine Spivey was his precious Ma. William Lott was his mighty proud Pa. Born seventh in line, he was part of the dozen, children whom the good Lord had chosen to lovingly form the Lott Family Tree. They lived on a farm near Willacoochee. He played and grew as his life began.

Then little boy Johnny became a young man, by age sixteen he was very well known. As so dependable, though only half grown, he went to school and drove bus part-time, to earn extra money, they could use every dime! Good grades came easily to this bright young man. He became Valedictorian without making a plan. At graduation time he was surprised to hear his were the highest grades of all that year. When the second place girl started to cry, Johnny didn’t really understand why, But she had worked extra hard to win the honor that came so easily to him.

Life soon changed, the draft went through. John proudly served during WW Two. He was stationed in Santa Maria, Italy, as a patriotic soldier in the Army Infantry. Though he liked the country, with its beauty to behold, He was unsure each day how the war would unfold. Then “FATE” snatched him back, the night before he was to go to the front line, to fight in the war, his company was packed, to be shipped the next day, when news came of great victory for the USA! All troops had to serve out the time they had left, but Staff Sergeant Lott was transferred at the request of a Colonel who wanted him in the Air Force, because John was such a good driver, of course!

At last to the farm he happily returned. Life goes on—he quickly learned. Meanwhile “FATE” was living up his life, destiny had big plans, starting with a wife. Lucille Merchant at the time didn’t know, but the seeds of love had started to grow. She knew only that she was very aware of the handsome ex-soldier with the dark wavy hair. To his brother, Leo, whom she already knew, as her interest in John slowly grew, she talked about him, expressing concern, but he was dating another, she was to learn. She watched from afar and though they’d not met, Lucille felt kind of jealous of his “other date.”

Then on his twenty-first birthday, out celebrating life, at a party—from across the room—John said, “There’s my wife!” He made a bee line to her and asked for a dance. When he asked for a date, she gave him a chance. For the next three months, they were together each night. Then John popped the question to her great delight. After a wedding at St. Paul’s to say “I do,” they began married life and their family grew. First a daughter, Helen, arrived one morn. Two and a half years later, Vickie was born. With two little girls, they then hoped for a son, along came Levonne to make it two to one.

But destiny wasn’t finished, to their great surprise. Six years later, Danny with his big blue eyes. Destiny was sure busy, planning John a long life, good times and bad times to share with his wife. John had farmed at first, then looked at careers. He chose G & F and worked there 23 years. The railroad job was steady but sometimes tough, to be gone days at a time was mighty rough.

John got bigger and stronger, working each day, He earned the name “Big John” along the way. Once when a boxcar door came half off its track, John thought he was strong enough to put it right back! The door that fell would have killed many a man, but sparing John’s life was once more “FATE’s” plan. A back broken in two places kept him down for a while. Then he went back to work with a Big John smile. A few years later he faced death once more. His long stay in bed had caused kidney stones galore. He had two extreme surgeries, but he made it through. Thought John’s big body was cut almost in two. Again his recovery took a long while. Then he went back to work, flashing that smile.

After retiring from the railroad, he didn’t slow down. He tended gardens and fruit trees all over town. A self-taught grafter, it’s still amazing to see. He has five types of apples on one apple tree. He put his green thumb talent to work full time. John and Lucille made a team just fine. Grapevines and flowers they planted still grow. Tons of tomatoes they harvested, I know. Their life was so great, not all work and no play. They shared many fishing trips along the way. John also got to drive a bus one more time. Zero-one was the first in the county of its kind. He liked driving the flat-nosed bus for a while, and all the kids loved Mr. Lott’s happy smile. His own children married and went out on their own. Ten grand, thirteen great grands, the family has grown.

After seventy-five years, John’s still around. He can’t do as much, he’s finally slowed down. It’s not his age that holds him back. He’s just had some obstacles put in his path. After surgery for new knees, about three years ago, a horrible infection started to secretly grow. It found a weak place in his body to attack. These old broken, then healed, parts of his back.

The doctors he saw couldn’t find what was wrong. “Just Arthritis” became the most popular “song.” The pain increased daily, his condition got worse. He became bed-ridden while Lucille was his nurse. Then “FATE” once more snatched John away. From the brink of death that loomed in his way! Dr. Scott did a new test, what he found was bad. But he knew a great doctor, who had treated his dad. Dr. Horton of Atlanta, a specialist of the spine, rushed John into Emory, in the nick of time. A deadly infection—his spine crumbled in two—which to treat first? They hardly knew! During two eight hour surgeries in the next five days, they rebuilt his back, but left John in a daze.

A very sick man for the next four weeks, he still couldn’t walk, his legs were too weak. After a month of treatment in a nursing home, though his body was healing, he couldn’t stand alone. John lost his smile for the first time in his life! He’d been through such agony, pain and strife. But at the end of November, he came home to Lucille. Always by his side, she nursed him still. Finally destiny stopped in with a wonderful plan.

Steve Miller, home therapist, an inspiring kind of man, helped John find new hope, the first time in a while. They exercised each day and John found his smile. The Christmas celebration was so special that year! John walked alone and the whole family cheered!

Though is has taken a year, John has never given up. He can walk, drive or fish now, some call it good luck. But from the beginning, this “LUCKY” man has known that his “FATE” has been in the hand of a Father in Heaven, who gave him his life, his children, the grandkids and his loving wife. The blessings, the good luck that some may call “FATE” John knows are all miracles from a God so great. So thank you, Father, for all you have done. For John Joseph Lott, your ever-grateful son.

I love you, Papa–a bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck. Give the Bumblebee man a hug for me.