On this date 28 years ago, I awoke and prepared for work. The day was much like this
one...sunny and crisp.
I was living
with my grandmother, as she had congestive heart failure and had suffered a
stroke several months earlier.
Thursday had
been an unusual one. Grandma wanted to make City Chicken and an apple pie. She
called my cousin Kathy and my Mom to invite them for supper. She hadn't wanted
to cook for months. The meal was delightful, and she enjoyed the company.
Friday
morning I checked on her before getting in the shower. She seemed fine.
By the time
I was done showering, she was congested, not breathing well at all. If you have
been in the presence of someone with CHF, you know the distinctive sound that
is made when the patient can't breath...like a frantic hiccup...gurgling...a sound I can
still hear. I started for the phone to call 9-1-1. She shook her head and
motioned for me to come to her side.
I called my
aunt who lived across the street. She called for the ambulance, then came to be
with us.
For the next
few minutes we held her hands, watching her slip from this world to the next.
I was nearly
25, and she had been one of the most significant people in my life. I had lived
with her for five months, knowing this would happen at some point, but not
really accepting it.
What I had
no way of knowing is that 28 years later I would still think of her daily,
still hear her voice, still seek her help, still miss her every time I watched
the Pirates.
"The
Surge" - that's what medical professionals call a day like we had on
Thursday. In hindsight, it made sense. October 10 is my grandfather's birthday.
In 1984, he had been gone for 31 years, and I'm sure Grandma missed him
terribly. I will always believe that as Wednesday Oct 10 passed, she willed
herself to have one more good day. On Thursday she cooked, baked, saw several
members of her family. And on Friday, she gave up. She was ready to be done
with sickness, ready to be with her beloved Joe, just ready.
Grandma
despised the condition of her body after the stroke. Unable to walk well,
little use of her right/dominant side, spending much of her time attached to an
oxygen tank. She wasn't silent about her unhappiness. At the age of 24, I sometimes took that personally,
felt she didn't appreciate my help. Now I understand that it must be difficult
to depend on a person whose diapers you once changed.
I didn't
take advantage of that time to ask her questions about her life, questions
about Grandpa, questions only she could answer. I didn't sit with her as much
as I could have.
But there
was a lot of sweetness. Listening to her visit with friends. Turning to see her
smiling as she listened to me sing old hymns while I cleaned or cooked. Saying,
"I love you, Gram" before I went upstairs to bed and hearing her say,
"I love you, too, Honey."
Hard to
believe it has been 28 years. Seems like a minute...and a lifetime.
It's like
that when we miss someone, isn't it?
I think
about the depth of my grief at that time. I think about how my perspective has
changed.
Death no
longer frightens me.
You might
read that and think death doesn't faze me, doesn't alter me. Of course it does.
I don't want people I love to die. Passing of loved ones rips at my heart, but
it doesn't shake my foundation.
Death is not
the end that I thought it was in 1984. Do I wish I could sit down to a meal
with Grandma, Patty-Jo, Christopher, and other loved ones who have passed? Yes,
of course. Would give anything for that chance.
They aren't
here to touch, but they aren't gone either.
And what I
know for sure is that as we stood at Grandma's bedside watching her go, my
grandfather was on the other side waiting with glee.
As we stood
at the funeral home, as we wept at the graveside, she was at the banquet table
of God, celebrating as she never had before.
In the past
three years, as I have traveled through a dark abyss, I have often felt my
grandmother very near. I have heard her voice telling me to take another step. I
hear her saying everything will be fine.
I know all
this will pass...this valley, this difficulty, indeed this life. I know I will
see her again. I do know.
Until then, I
will continue to miss her.
And each
night I will say, "Goodnight, Gram" and I will hear, "I love you
too, honey."
We will talk
again tomorrow.
BP
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