The Gift Ginny Craven

The Gift A Memoir

By Ginny Craven The giver receives the real gift –an emotional bequest, borne only of true, selfless service. Some years ago, I took an extraordinary journey of heart that began when I volunteered for a Miami hospice organization. It was then that I met Marva Marshall. Marva was an elegant person with an indomitable spirit whose deep, booming voice and Cheshire cat grin preceded her into every room. Her attitude belied the apparent circumstances of her life. She had a host of medical conditions – thrice weekly dialysis, degenerative heart disease among them – illnesses severe enough to be admitted to hospice, which presupposes a six-month life expectancy.

I visited her a couple of times a week in her apartment in Liberty City – a ramshackle little hovel with a rusted refrigerator and family photos of grandsons and nephews in their prison jumpsuits, not the nicest part of Miami to be sure. The first time I took my kids to meet Miss Marva, there was a drug bust right in front of us –guys plastered to the hoods of police cars. The sheer dichotomy of life experience was, well, black and white.

I would go just to chat or play a game of cards or to color (We both loved to color). I brought her some vegetable plants for a little garden, food and sundries . . . Our very divergent lives began to meld on the most basic level.

In the summer of 2007, my family took an epic vacation lasting a full two months. While away, I got a call from Miss Marva saying that she had been “kicked out of hospice.” By her estimation, she wasn’t dying fast enough for them. Great news to be sure, although her maintenance care most certainly deteriorated after that.

When I returned in late August, Marva was as spirited as ever, though she seemed more tired, a little more frail. She would walk with a walker just a few steps and be winded. Nonetheless, she rarely complained – even a little bit. Her granddaughter, Linda, had moved in with her over the summer – a quiet 18 year-old who was expecting a baby in November. Marva believed in caring for the child and wouldn’t have considered recommending an abortion; it was God’s will.

You begin to see the cycle of poverty and the seemingly endless ripples of a poor decision – only those bad choices have so much more impact in Marva’s world. Linda’s father, Marva’s only son, had died sixteen years before from AIDS. Marva told me about getting the news of his death. She said that she ran from the house screaming. She just totally lost control. That’s not a hard one to understand. It created such a vivid picture for me. It still makes me feel as though I’m going to suffocate just to think about it.

Linda and her sister, Melissa, were Marva’s grandchildren. Melissa, a surly, angry teenager had had a baby at 13. After their father died, they bounced between reluctant family members; their mother was a crack addict and although she lived in Miami, the girls hadn’t seen her for years. Although Marva stepped in to take care of Linda, her failing health didn’t allow her to do much, but she was there – the eternal matriarch.

While the fall wore on with my own cares and concerns, Marva’s constant optimism made me feel a little ashamed of my petty grumblings – kept me real. I tried to see her as often as I could, but life, in general, seemed to devour my time. After returning from one of my out of town trips, I called over to say, “Hello!” Rudolph, Marva’s partner, told me that she had been admitted to the hospital with a pain in her abdomen and would be operated on the next day. I went to see her and had only a moment before she was taken to surgery – our last real moment as it turned out. The doctors discovered that her entire abdomen was gangrenous, so she was returned to ICU on a ventilator. I spent the ensuing days in and out of intensive care with her, trying to advise her family on the appropriate path. This was no way to live – or die. Rudolph had been Marva’s partner for 30+ years. He was completely devastated and clinging to a vain hope that she would get better. Because they were not legally married, he could not make any medical decisions for her. So, the hospital had to contact her three brothers to do that long-distance. Alvin, her eldest and closest brother who lived in Norfolk, called me to ask my opinion. He was dealing with his own private hell; his son had just undergone treatment and surgery for esophageal cancer. And, sweet Rudolph was in no condition to give advice, or really to comprehend the situation. As for me, I was just there, holding her hand, talking to her – knowing that she knew and appreciated my presence. My kids came with me on her birthday and we all sang to her, with the ventilator sighing mournfully in the background. We brought balloons. I’ve often thought what a curious sight I was to the uneducated onlooker – how out-of-place as I stood at her bedside – me, the affluent white woman, she so poor and black. And, when I would walk hand-in-hand with Rudolph – again, two ends of the spectrum – he, with his dirty T-shirt and shy, toothless smile – and me, well Barbie. But, those folks stuck on appearances simply didn’t know. Miss Marva died on November 29th, just one day after her 60th birthday. We never got to celebrate our “decades” at Red Lobster (her favorite restaurant). I helped her brother Alvin to make the decision to take her off life support. She died that same night – just hours later, in fact – and I was the only one with her, holding her hand, knowing she knew . . . hoping she knew. Alvin put instant trust in me – strange, really, but so very fulfilling – to be needed, trusted and wanted – even more poignant given how miserable my own home life was at the time. The week that followed was a somber one and a time really left to the family. I went to see her at the funeral home, pulling up to this caricature of a place, all pimped out with gaudy décor and personnel sporting lots of gold – both in their front teeth and around their necks and wrists. There she was – my Marva – all dolled up with a familiar (though much fancier) turban on her head, earrings and a funny quirky smile – not the broad toothy grin I was used to. Her eyes were closed, and she looked peaceful, almost smug in fact. It was good. The funeral was really an experience. We went to a Baptist Church in the very heart of Overtown/Liberty City –not a great place to venture into, especially for someone like me – day or night. I pulled up in my perfect little minivan and alighted in my perfect little black suit, ruffles at the hem. Rudolph and Alvin had asked that I speak at the funeral. Despite my endemic dislike for public speaking, I was uncharacteristically calm. The church was huge and

I sat with the wife of the preacher – right up in front. There were lots of “Praise-theLords” and “Hallelujahs” and streams of preaching/singing/proselytizing. I was the only white person in a crowd of nearly 100 – a mostly tough-looking crowd. I followed a deacon to the podium – an inspirational speaker/singer who had the crowd on their feet. Wonderful – a decidedly hard act to follow! Nonetheless, people reacted. Folks laughed . . . and I cried a bit, whether from nerves or sheer emotion it’s hard to say. But, I embraced the crowd, embraced their humanity and celebrated this remarkable little woman who was our common bond with my words:

My name is Ginny Craven. I began as Sister Marshall’s friend and, now, I guess I’m the Black Sheep of the family! I met Ms. Marva almost a year ago through my volunteer work with Odyssey Healthcare –a local hospice company. It was love at first sight for me, and I’d like to think it was the same for her. But, that is her special gift – making everyone feel important. I think that, if there is one thing about Marva that is truly remarkable, it is her spirit. I knew her when her health was already failing and she was always upbeat –always happy to see me and my kids. I think she inspired people that way. And, it is this same spirit that I will hold in my heart forever. While I am sad that she is no longer here with us, I am blessed to have known her and to now be a part of her world. As I once told her and have told Rudolph too, I’m like crabgrass; once I get started, it’s hard to get rid of me.

Near the end of the funeral, there was an interlude that, to me, was comic relief, although apparently, it was standard operating procedure for the rest of the audience. Two members of the funeral home staff paraded up the aisles bearing all the flower arrangements that had been given by Marva’s friends and family. The two guys, who were properly attired in over-the-top shiny suits, strutted up and down before the congregation hawking their wares as though they were up for auction.

“And this lovely arrangement featuring chrysanthemums and daisies was given by Sista’ Marshall’s devoted brutha’ Alvin Walker.”

The congregation then paid final respects, filing by her open casket, some laying flowers on her still form. Linda held her newborn baby for a once-in-a-lifetime view of her great grandmother. And it was over . . . a physical life extinguished.

The service graveside was mercifully short. There was no filling of the grave, thank God. I’m not sure that I wanted to hear the sound of the clods of earth thudding on the casket lid. I said my good-byes graveside.

Now, more than a decade later, life has intervened, dulling the experience somewhat to be sure. But, this is something that will stay with me forever – a treasure so precious, a lesson so profound that it can never be erased. The giver receives the real gift – an emotional bequest, borne only of true, selfless service. Agendas are set aside; selfish motives are discarded; differences disappear into thin air. What remains is pure, distilled humanity – just people connected heart-to-heart, without prejudice or expectation, joined at the most basic level of eternal truth. This is the gift that I received from my friend, Marva.