Domenica

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• March 22, 2016

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

–Macbeth

The last time I saw my Grandma was Valentines Day, and while she slept most of the visit, my Grandpa (nearly 93 years old) recited this passage from Macbeth from memory.  I literally applauded him.  He didn’t just recite it, he gave such a performance, even Michael Fassbender would have been impressed.

Those words rang through my head with a bitter irony when about a month later (St. Patrick’s Day), I got a call from my Mom that Grandma had died in her sleep.  It wasn’t such a shock, as she had long suffered with Alzheimer’s, and the past couple years have been particularly trying for her, and none less woe-some for the family to watch her suffer in such a state.  She went peacefully, and now her worried mind could finally rest.  While I (I’ll speak for myself, though I’m sure my family agrees) was relieved in way, and not surprised, it still felt like the Huntsman tore my heart out of my chest, and heartbreak pulsated through every cell in my body.

Knowing I was going to miss a few days of work, I swallowed my tears, and finished what I had to do, until about two hours later when I told my boss I had to leave early because my Grandma died, to which my co-workers offered their condolences and I left.  My parents were already packing and getting ready to drive up from Florida with my sister and nephew, but with an overnight stop they wouldn’t be here for almost 48 hours.

Tears ran down my cheeks as I rode the subway.  The thing about New York City, is if someone is crying, people just ignore you.  This is something I actually like a lot about New York.  But little did I know is it would be over 24 hours before someone really hugged me, and I just felt sad and alone.  The price you pay of being a not so affectionate recluse, is people are reluctant to be affectionate towards you (because I usually hate it).  But the difference between depression and heartbreak, is heartbreak can be temporarily mended by hugs and being around people who love you.

The place I wanted to run to was our old house in West Islip, to be with my family.  But this was not an option, of course.  So I went to the next place I feel most comfortable, the Brokerage Comedy Club on Long Island, to be with comics, my chosen family.  By the way, they would mock for referring to them as ‘family,’ and they’re all a bunch of fucked up misfits, but truth is, they’re really no more or less fucked up than my actual family, they just embrace it more.  At least for a few hours, I could be around people who made me laugh, and cared about me, and a couple days later they all showed up to my Grandma’s wake, and I only tell you this because I want it to be known how supportive the comedians are of one another.  I still did my spot, and had a good set, which may seem a little screwed up, but doing comedy is therapy for comics, and a short lived relief/high from what was a really shitty day.

The following day, I went to see my Grandpa, and to say he was devastated would be an understatement.  Watching him break down felt like the Huntsman, who was already holding my bleeding heart, just chopped the heart over and over with his ax.  I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone so sad.  Over 60 years, he went to bed and woke up next to the same woman.  And now, he went to the same bed alone.  He’s so in love with her.  But who wasn’t in love with Domenica Palminteri?  She was the kindest human on the planet.  I am one of the more cynical persons in my family (and possibly, Earth), and what shred of hope I’ve ever had in humanity stems from Grandma Mae.  No one has ever heard her speak a negative word about another person.  She judged no one, and radiated a motherly warmth.  She was a reserved woman, but if you came over, she emptied her fridge and pantry for you.  She loved to laugh, and my Dad especially always made her crack up.  Even when her Alzheimer’s robbed her of the power of speech, she still laughed at his jokes.  I’m not sure she understood them, or if she just knew the cadence of my Dad’s sarcasm so well, that it triggered a reaction.

Every one who knew her spoke of her kindness.  A real, genuine, positive heart is rare thing to come by.  I seriously doubt I’ll ever come to know anyone like her again.  If I’m even a tenth as good as she is, I would be happy with that.  Not a lot of Catholic’s practice what they preach.  But she did.  She loved her family.  Six kids.  Twelve grandchildren.  Five great grandchildren.

While it’s impossible not to lament the death of the most decent human I’ve ever known, there’s a certain contentedness knowing that she did live a long, happy life, and the love she put out to the world was so great, that it bounced back to her.  And that love still ripples on, and I like to think, in a way, it always will.

My sister, Lisa. Grandma. Grandpa. And me.