by Jamie Maggio

Created on: May 25, 2010

She wasn’t just a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, a teacher, a student, an employee, or a friend. She was “Mammaw”. The one word summed up her existence for me. Mammaw was the one person in life that was always there for me no matter if I was happy, sad, angry, or having a raging panic attack. She never told me to “be strong” or “it’s all in your mind”. Instead, she held me as I cried and told me how much she loved me. Losing her has been one of the hardest (scratch that) has been the hardest situation I’ve ever dealt with.

Mammaw raised me after she raised her own three children. My parents lived with her until they got their own house within walking distance to hers. When they left - I stayed. She had been recently widowed and had clung to the little girl that hero worshipped her. She saw me through having my leg run over by a lawn mower, measles, mumps, strep throat, ear infections, mono, and even chicken pocks when she was nervous because she’d never had them. She never asked for anything. She always gave. Until the end she gave and gave and never asked for anything in return.

Even though I was a chubby little girl she put me in ballet and was there for every lesson, recital, costume fitting, and anything related. She made sure I was well dressed and well practiced. She gave me confidence that even though I wasn’t as tiny as the other girls; I was still as good and should pursue my dream. She also did this with band and I was first chair. She did this with the spelling bee and I went to state nationals. She did the same with my grades and I graduated high school with a 94.5 GPA. I got into a good college and leaving her was a raw hurt that I couldn’t describe. However, it’s nothing like what I am going through right now.

Once I graduated college I moved back home, got married, and moved in RIGHT next door to her. She gave me a lot and made sure that we were together again. We had lunches together, worked in the garden, chatted, read stories, watched movies, and were once more bosom buddies. In my 33 years of life she’d been to the doctor twice. Once she fell off the top of a sink and cracked her elbow and the second time she got blood poisoning after chopping wood.

At 78 years old she still chopped all her own firewood, tended a huge garden, worked 35 hours a week, and was there at 3am if I had a panic attack or needed support. She was, to me, the poster woman

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