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Good morning,
There will be no running-related commentary this week, no links to interesting things I’ve read or listened to, and no new episode of the podcast. All of that got put on hold yesterday morning when I received a phone call from my dad telling me that my Nana’s condition had worsened from a stroke she suffered last week and I should come home as soon as possible. It came to a complete halt a few hours later when he called again to let me know she had passed away. Nana Fraioli was 92 years old and she lived a simple, proud, selfless, and full life. I’m going to use this space to share a little about what she meant to me.
I’m writing these words on the bus ride to the airport, where I’m taking a redeye flight home to Boston, landing at the same time this email is arriving in your inbox. Selfishly, I had hoped Nana would hang on for a few more hours so I could hold her hand and say goodbye one last time, but she passed on her terms, which comes as no surprise to anyone who knew her because that’s how she lived her life.
There are few people I’ve truly been close to the entirety of my nearly 38 years on this earth, but Nana was at the top of that list. She and my Nonni basically raised me from the time I was a young kid. As the oldest of their six grandchildren, I would spend weeks on end at their house, playing in the yard, helping out in the garden, learning how to speak Italian, and, without knowing it at the time, observing how to live a good life. As a young adult still living in Massachusetts, I would stop by her house nearly every day to say hello and grab a bite to eat. I always knew to show up with an empty stomach because I was leaving there with a full one, whether I wanted to or not. My move to California 10 years ago was tough on both of us but we had a standing phone call every Sunday, the last few of which I recorded, and will forever cherish.
While we were home a few weeks ago, Nana was in the rehab hospital, recovering from a fall a couple days prior to our arrival. Aside from being pissed that she couldn’t host Christmas Eve, she was in good spirits and her usual feisty, stubborn self, refusing help unless she absolutely needed it. Christine and I spent 1 to 3 hours with her every day of our visit, catching up and conversing about life: the shortness of it, the beauty and struggle in it, and the lessons we learn about ourselves and others along the way. On our last day together, December 28, I asked her if she had any advice to give me and Christine before we left, and she perked up immediately. I’ll never forget the focused look in her eye, the firm and methodical cadence of her voice, her hands gesticulating with passion and excitement. This is a monologue I had heard many times before but somehow, every iteration had a special kind of freshness to it. The first thing she told us was that love and companionship are the most important things in life. She reminded us to always put the other person first and encouraged us to show appreciation and affection often. Second, she warned us against the dangers of greed and lectured us to be smart with our money. “Don’t spend more than you make and don’t buy more than you need,” was how she liked to put it. This coming from a woman who had lived in the same modest apartment since she immigrated to this country in 1966. Nana never owned a TV, a computer, or a cell phone, and she hadn’t bought a new outfit since well before I was born. And lastly, she recounted a familiar story of when she was around my age and had just come to the U.S. from Italy. After working her day job in laundry at the state hospital, she and my grandfather would go around looking at apartments with “For Rent” signs in the window to see if they could clean and paint them for a few extra bucks. She “worked like a chooch (jackass),” she admitted, and proceeded to tell me that I shouldn’t be afraid to work hard. “But know when to take a rest,” she advised. “Otherwise you won’t last very long.”
Nana was always looking out for everyone else. On our weekly phone calls, she would ask how I was doing, if Christine was OK, if we needed anything, and when I was coming home next. She was constantly worried that I was working, traveling, or running too much, to which I would jokingly reply, “You know we’re the same type of apple, right?” Whenever I would come home to visit, we’d have these long, remarkable conversations that taught me so much about her, our family, and how to live well. In the last few years, when I would swing by to say goodbye prior to flying back to California, there was always an unspoken understanding between the two of us that it could be the last time we’d ever see one another in person. A little over three weeks ago, as Christine and I were leaving for the airport, Nana gave us each an extra kiss on the forehead, holding us close. She told us to be careful and to take care of each other always. I had tears in my eyes as I walked out of the room. I looked back and Nana was crying too. It was the goodbye she wanted, and it was beautiful.
Thanks for reading,
Mario
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