It has now been two years since my grandmother’s passing. I was not sure that I would be writing a post about her today, but then I pictured my mother on this day. Having woken up with a heart so still and so swollen with anguish, what else could I write about but her?
The very last time I saw my grandmother, I knew it would be the last time. There was something in her aura. Or the air. Or perhaps it was just a foreboding one feels when they are around an elderly relative. Either way, I tried to pepper her with questions I had been wanting to know all of these years. To get answers in the little time that we had together.
And I thought I would retain that conversation forever. I never ever forget a conversation. Where I put the checkbook, yes. A friend’s birthday, sigh. But a conversation is burned forever into my memory. Which makes it all the more tragic and suspicious to admit that my last conversation with my grandmother is becoming fuzzy. Blurring away with tears and time and perhaps grief is smothering its edges to make the pain less prominently sharp.
Whatever the reason, I wanted to recount some of those things we spoke about on that last day. Not all of her words, but I wanted to share the wisdom of some of her responses to me. The ones I have kept inside until now. Slumbering under a blanket of denial…
When I asked her about a particular person and whether she had spoken to that person in a while, she sighed but very strongly stated, “I don’t have time for people like that.” Honestly, this spoke to my heart. After her death that year I reevaluated my life and my own relationships.
My grandmother always ordered dessert at a restaurant. Always. Sometimes before the meal. Dessert was Grandma. Grandma was dessert. And on that last day when she turned it down after lunch, I knew something was wrong. The turned down dessert caused my eyes to widen and my pulse to beat faster. I ordered it anyway and insisted she have a bite. She ate it without her usual gumption. Grandma’s personality was the extras. She was over the top. Or the top. She was the cherry. The whipped cream. The hot fudge. Her turning down dessert felt like the universe had flipped upside down. And I knew in that moment of vanilla sorrow that the pain was just beginning.
But perhaps the hardest thing for me to recall is when she wearily and out of the blue said, “You know, you might feel sorry for me because I am old, but I feel sorry for you. For all of the things you are going to have to go through. For all of the things you will have to see and face and endure.”
I think about what she said in that moment a lot.
A lot.
For in her words was a truth that is rarely spoken.
By the time a person reaches old age, they have lost so much. She, herself, lost her husband while she was fairly young. She lost her oldest son a few years before she passed away. So much was taken away from her. The thought of having to suffer through what she did makes me swallow giant tears of dread and fear in the back of my throat.
Two months later I would experience the loss of her. Adding it to my small dam of loss that one builds around their life’s river trying to fabricate their lake of happiness in their soul. The pain was great, but I know there will be more to come. So very much more pain. Is it something to feel sorry for? That is the question. The dangerous and depressing quicksand of pondering too deeply. Of course it is, but I hope there is light to look forward to, too.
I think back on that last day with my grandmother. Of her words. The heavy sorrowful words of wisdom. And it makes my heart sink with the weight of hopelessness. But then, on the edge of that foggy memory, a ray of sunlight appears. And with it comes the trinkling sound of my grandmother’s quick laughter. It cuts through the clouds of gloom with the lightning crackle of humor.
And I begin to remember one more thing about that day.
The shadow of the memory is so faint that only the outline of it appears in my mind. My husband driving my grandmother and myself through our small town, the car hitting a piece of debris in the road. My husband turning to Grandma and apologetically stating, “Sorry for the bump.”
My grandma quickly chortled one of her witty followups, “Did you say hump or bump?”
To which I blushed and laughed.
Our laughter blurred together filling the car with the bells of joy. When it became quiet again, she mischievously continued, “Just making sure you weren’t making me an offer.”
And we laughed some more.
“Oh Grandma,” I gleefully murmured.
Oh… Grandma.
