Remembering My Kiki (December 3, 2019)

Hi, I’m Liza.

I’m Marilyn’s youngest grandchild, which I guess doesn’t mean much, but it does mean that I didn’t know her as the woman most of you knew her as. I got her like that for about seven years, and boy do I remember those times. She was a force of nature. Even at a young age I knew how larger than life she was. But I want to tell you about the woman I knew best. The woman who was my best friend. My rock. My Kiki.

Now, for those who don't know, my sister and I called her Kiki. The story goes like this: she wanted to be called Mimi. Got a t-shirt and all, but when Matti was a kid, she couldn’t pronounce the mmm. So, after countless attempts to get her to say it, she settled on Kiki. And she owned it. To me, it always made sense; a woman like that deserved something more unique than Mimi.

Either way, the Kiki I knew best was the one that came after 2008, when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Now, I know a lot of people don’t like to think of her in that stage of her life, but that’s the majority of the time that I spent with her, and I think you all should know that, aside from appearance, she was the same Marilyn you all knew and loved. Don’t get me wrong – she was absolutely breathtaking through it all, but I’m biased. The Kiki that I knew was strong. She never let a disease control her. The doctors gave her five years … she took eleven. The nurses told her she shouldn’t walk anymore … she took two laps around the floor with her head held high. My Kiki was a spitfire if I ever knew one. She was stubborn, hard-headed, opinionated, and I wouldn’t want her any other way.

She taught me a lot over the years. As a kid, she taught me how to ice skate, how to sing (although mom will take credit for that one), how to tell how many almonds I could eat by measuring them in the palm of my hand, why you should never put your purse on the hook in a public bathroom because there is a 100% chance that someone will reach over and take it, and so much more. She showed me how to accept people who didn’t look, act, or think like I did. She taught me unconditional love. But through her getting sick, she taught me the most important thing. Something that has helped me in every aspect of life. And that is that no matter how bad it is, there is always something good, and there is always a reason to hold your head high. She’d say “pick yourself up from your bootstraps,” unless you’re wearing heels, of course.

And Kiki was that something good. She was the smile that brightened everything. She was the hug that could end wars. And she was the voice that could move mountains. And she did.

I have been blessed with an amazing family and friend group. I know a lot of strong, brilliant, beautiful people. But I’ve never known anyone as strong as my Kiki. Even through the end. She never gave up, never stopped fighting, and she always looked great doing it. She has never been less than remarkable. Not when she was thirty, fifty, or even over the past eleven years.

And that is how I plan to remember her. As the strongest, most breathtaking woman I knew, though it all.