243. You Can Laugh Or You Can Cry

Julia Winston shares a remembrance about her Granny, whose most famous piece of advice was that you can find humor in anything. 

Julia Winston is the host of Refamulating, the latest podcast from Feelings and Co. Refamulating tells stories about the different ways people are creating families.

Transcripts may not appear in their final version and are subject to change.

Julia: I’m Julia Winston and It’s Going To Be Okay. 

When I think of my dead grandmother, I burst out laughing.

Joyce Schechter was born in Gadsden, Alabama with a deep Southern accent to prove it. She met my grandfather, Joe, when she was 15. They got married when she was 18, and she had my mom when she was 19. She was only 48 when I was born, but in my mind she’s always been a tiny little lady with white hair, pink nails, red lips, gold jewelry and a giant smile. She loved romance novels, wonderbread sandwiches, Westminster terriers and pretty much every person she ever met. She often suffered from spontaneous laugh attacks. Popop had a perfect nickname for her: “popcorn fart.” I just called her Granny. 

I was Granny’s first grandchild. She held me the day I was born. We formed a bond immediately and it never went away. We delighted in each other’s company from the very beginning. When I was a kid, we ate candy, told stories and made paper crowns and rag doll parades. She’d stir my bubble baths with a wooden spoon and declare that we were making alligator stew. She taught me how to sew, play dress up and bake cookies. She always let me eat the dough. When we went shopping for my bat mitzvah outfit, she bought me a midriff-bearing crop top and tight black pants from Forever 21. Which raised eyebrows amongst the parents because apparently it was too revealing for a 12-year-old. But Granny said, “Look at that cute little figure!” and told me I should wear whatever I wanted. 

She’d greet me effusively by saying, “Hi darlin, how are you!” When our family got together for Shabbat dinner, she pretended to know the Hebrew blessings by mouthing the word “watermelon” over and over, with a mischievous look in her eye. When we had to go to temple and sit through boring sermons, she’d sit next to me and we’d hold hands and play tic-tac-toe.

When I was a teenager, she bought me Neutrogena and taught me how to take care of my skin. Rebellious and always ready to party, I often snuck out and got wasted with my friends but even when I was black out drunk I’d wake up the next morning with a refreshingly clean and moisturized face, thanks to Granny’s wisdom.

When I moved into my first apartment sophomore year of college, she gave me one of those black and white Composition Notebooks and called it “The College Girl’s Guide to Cooking.” Page one was titled, “Cereal.” “Step 1: Open the cupboard and pick your favorite box, Step 2: Take it off the shelf and pour it in a bowl. Step 3: Enjoy! Granny’s simple outlook on life was the best medicine for my anxious, overthinking brain. I also always kept journals to help me process my thoughts and feelings.

So when I went off to study abroad in Prague my junior year, she bought me a brand new journal to write in, just for her. She wanted to know all the juicy details from my adventures. The journal was covered in orange sequins. I thought it was one of the ugliest things I’d ever seen but I loved to look at it because it reminded me of her. I kept two journals that semester, one filled with all the dirty details, and the other, orange sequined and slightly sanitized, version for Granny. She used to say she wished we were the same age so we could be roommates. 

Granny was my favorite person in the world and I was hers. She loved me unconditionally. 

As I got older and experienced more of the tough stuff life has to offer, like heartbreak, work stress, and friendship dramas, I’d share my woes with Granny, and she’d always say, “Julia, you can laugh or you can cry, and crying just gives you a headache.” She told me to look for the humor in every situation. “Everything is always just a little bit funny,” she’d say.

Granny’s philosophy was put to the test when her husband of _ years, my Popop, had his _ stroke and started taking a turn for the worse. Not long after his stroke, she told me a story I’ll never forget. She herself had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at this point and she was still “with it” but she’d definitely started becoming a little less… filtered. 

After Popop had his stroke, she was sitting with him in the hospital, trying to connect but he wasn’t responding. He’d lost his speech and his eyes had become a bit vacant. Where had her husband gone? He was lying right next to her but he seemed to be somewhere else. Then she got an idea. She crawled in bed next to him. She looked him in the eye. And she said, “Want to fuck?” Suddenly he got a twinkle in his eye and started to laugh. There it was. She found it. The humor in that moment. “You can laugh or you can cry. But crying just gives you a headache.” 

My grandfather passed away not long after that, right before COVID lockdowns. I think Popop’s death was the dam that really unleashed Granny’s Alzheimer’s. She went to his funeral but she couldn’t really acknowledge what had happened. Who knows if it was the pain of losing the love of her life, or slipping deeper into dementia that prevented her from fully understanding her reality. It was probably a combination of both. 

Over the next two years, she continued declining and I visited her as much as I could, often wearing a mask and waving from outside the window of her assisted living facility, devastated by the COVID constraints that kept me from consoling her with hand holds and hugs. In January 2023, I still needed to wear a mask but we’d finally gotten to a place where I could be in the same room as her and hug her and hold her hand. One day that month, My sister Molly and I went to see her. By this point, she wasn’t speaking anymore. Up until then, when I’d said I love you she’d been able to say I love you more or I love you too. This time she didn’t say anything. She stared vacantly when we walked into her room.

Molly and I tried everything we could to jog her memory. We showed her pictures of her and Popop on their wedding day, of us when we were kids, of all her children and grandchildren. No response. My heart dropped. It was devastating. We’d reached a new low. All of a sudden, I heard her voice in my head. “Julia you can laugh or you can cry. But crying just gives you a headache.” 

Molly and I looked at each other, almost as if we were thinking the same thing at the same time. “Hey Granny?” She stared ahead blankly. “Do you remember that time when you went to the hospital to visit Popop? And he wasn’t talking, just like you right now? But you leaned over and do you remember what you said?” Still no response, but I caught a little flicker of life in her eyes. Then I hit the punch line. “Wanna fuck?” She blinked. Smiled. Her shoulders started shaking, her eyes started twinkling. There it was. I found it. The moment of humor. It came and went quickly, but even as her gaze hollowed out again, the atmosphere had become peaceful. Our laughter cracked open a moment of despair and filled it with light. It’s like Leonard Cohen said there’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. 

I crawled into the hospital bed and curled up next to Granny with Molly’s dog Reggie tucked in between us and Molly sitting next to us. The four of us sat together quietly for a long while, just breathing and being together. There was nothing to say, nothing to do. My heart slowed down, my mind got quiet, my body relaxed, and I was filled with appreciation for the moment we were sharing. “This is what love feels like,” I thought to myself. 

It was the last time I ever saw Granny. She died a few weeks later. Over the last year, as I’ve grieved, I’ve found myself in moments where I’ve missed her so much it hurts. Sometimes during those moments I’ve said to myself, “Okay, I’m gonna let myself grieve now.” And I stop what I’m doing. I sit. I take a deep breath. I make space for a wave of pain, and I wait for the tears to come. But you know what comes out instead? 

Laughter. When I think of my dead grandmother, I burst out laughing because you can laugh or you can cry. But crying just gives you a headache. 

I love you granny. Every time I laugh, you live on, through me. 

Thank you for being my granny. Thank you for making me laugh. 

It’s as simple as that.

THEME MUSIC

CREDITS

Nora: 

Julia Winston is the host of Refamulating, the latest podcast from Feelings and Co. Refamulating tells stories about the different ways to make a family, and the first episodes are available today. 

Head over to the Terrible Thanks for asking feed to listen to episode zero. And Episodes 1 and 2 of Refamulating are available wherever you get podcast. Just search refamulating. We also have a link in the show notes of this episode. 

But this…is It’s Going To Be Okay…I’m Nora McInerny. 

CREDITS