Two and a half years ago my Grandpa (much like a father to me in many ways) went to bed, and never awoke. This sudden passing of his was very difficult for me. I had kept meaning to have so many of those great conversations with him. You know, the real ones where you ask a seasoned believer his thoughts on scripture, on life. I had some opportunities over the years, but not enough.
He had served our country well, fought battles in WW2--even ones that the government denied even happened. He had a dry sense of humor and safe arms. He understood. He believed in me. I never felt silly asking him any question. Always love and acceptance. During church I would often snuggle my little 8-year-old self into his chest and to his hugging arms, protecting me my sadness of my parents' divorce. His passing was difficult for me because I wanted more time with him. He didn't suffer--was "as fine as frog's hair" til the end. Had his yearly check-ups, worked as the maintenance guy at his retirement villa for the elderly, occasionally put my sister's children on the bus in the mornings. Everyone loved him. I loved him. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.
Two weeks ago, Grandma passed away. So many memories I have of her. Playing Hide the Thimble. Reading to us about the Teeny Tiny Woman using a squeaky little voice throughout. You know, I learned how to properly fix enough food for gatherings because of her. She had enough to feed an army. No fear of running out of anything, especially our favorite children's dishes (canned corn with extra sugar). She was a planner and a cleaner. We would often tease her that her house was so clean we could probably eat off her floors. She would just shake her head and show a slight smile. I'm sure she was glad we noticed, especially since we were children at the time. One of my favorite books to read at her house was a Golden book called Baby Dear. I found one at a garage sale several years ago. It always reminds me of days at Grandma's house.
In December Grandma was diagnosed with dementia. Now things start to make sense. Each time I would talk to her she would retell the night of Grandpa's death, and tell me how she cried all day and night since. (I tried not to be annoyed, and wanted her to know she wasn't the only one that missed him.) She kept track of the nearly 40+ times she called 911 in that two and a half years. Grandma sorely missed Grandpa when he passed. She talked of him often, and trust me when I say she truly believed that no one missed him as much as she did. I just told her how sorry I was that he was gone. I was. My heart broke each time I would call her house to talk to her, and the answering machine picked up with Grandpa's voice still on the line... I never left a message. I didn't call as often as I should have, dreading the answering machine, hoping she would answer the phone. I guess we just all grieve in different ways. Looking back after the diagnosis of dementia, things start to make sense. I guess if hindsight is 20/20, this is a perfect example. There was an occasional "bird" in her apartment that scared her. Sometimes it was a bat, she would tell my cousin. She was determined this animal existed. Her belief was what she wanted it to be. You weren't going to change her mind. Another time someone tried to break into her apartment. Very random. Since these stories weren't all told to the same person in the family, we put pieces together later and look back with a thought of "ah-ha." It all makes sense now.
This last Christmas Eve (almost two months ago), the girls and I visited Grandma at the nursing home. This was before the horrible effects of dementia really began to set in. She was a bit ornery; refusing showers/baths, not wanting to eat much, detaching the alarm from her bed so the nurse wouldn't know if she was trying to get up on her own. (She also had severe vertigo, so monitoring her activity was for her safety). She was funny, and not so cooperative. Not the rule-following Grandma I remember as a child. The following week she started a horrible screaming, random and strong. Her mouth was opened wide, head tilted back. For a couple of weeks I would consider it a blood-curdling type of scream. Later this changed into more of a loud yell, probably the result of anti-anxiety meds. It was difficult to see and hear. Was she in pain? She said she was. Did she know anymore? She was seeing things. "I'll be glad when that thing turns the corner," she would repeat over and over, with her eyes wide and fearful. Eventually I would tell her that it was just her mind playing tricks on her, a tactic I heard my experienced nurse cousin use. I didn't want to scare her, but she had to know. Other times she would have a panicked expression of sadness and sob, "I'm dying, and no one cares!" even with a room full of family who loved her. That dementia is terrible. Brutal. Sad.
The week before she passed, my daughter and I stopped by for about 20 minutes on our way to the gym to say hello to Grandma, give her a quick hug and check on her. The nursing home staff was preparing Grandma's transfer to the local hospice house. Her roommate had since been relocated to a different room. Grandma was alone at the time. I peeked my head around to see what she was doing, and found her lying peacefully with her arms on top of her smooth, white blanket, eyes closed. She wasn't screaming. No yelling. Peace. I walked to her and sat in the chair next to her, stroking her arm with the back of my hand (since mine were cold). She opened her eyes. I smiled and said hello, leaning close, asking her if she knew who I was. "Yes. You're Stephanie," she said, with a little, ever-so-slight grin. I'm not sure if she was completely there with me that day, but I will choose to believe she was. I wasn't with her in her last few months as much as my life currently would allow, but visited as often as I could. "I just don't know what I would do without you," she said to me. In all honesty, this couldn't be true. Her daughters and other family members were far closer to her than I was the past several years. She would have been fine without me. I will believe, though, that she knew what she was saying and that it was her way of expressing her love to me, for me, for our times together. In some way, I think I needed that, to know I was special to her.
I told her I loved her several times, and each time she told me that she loved me, each time the same way I told her. She only screamed once while I was there. I asked her why she screamed, but she said she didn't know why. Grandma kept telling me she was going to pass out, then her eyes would quickly close like someone flipped her "on" switch to "off". After a few seconds I would gently whisper "Grandma" and she would open her eyes and announce that she had just passed out. This happened several times.
She wasn't afraid to die. I know this because once when she had said she was going to die (for maybe the tenth time that day), I just came right out and asked her if she was afraid to die. She paused and responded with a simple no. Then I went on and talked about Heaven, about God's promise to us who believe in his Son and His love for us. Love that was shown, Love that was given, Love that never dies. She believed in that Love.
The following Monday hospice called the family in, but by the time we got there, she was already gone. Honestly, she would have wanted it that way. It's the way she would have planned it. She had her funeral dress picked out, a plot waiting for her next to Grandpa, arrangements made and paid for, directions to the funeral home all written out in case we didn't know how to get there (same place where Grandpa's was), songs chosen for her funeral service (all the same as Grandpa's except for one), and the speaker picked out for her funeral service. She even wrote her obituary, ommitting the dates, of course. She had it all planned out. I'm sure passing by herself would have been on her list, too, had she been able to make that choice. Had she know. But she didn't. God did. He always knows.
The day before Grandma went to be with Grandpa in Heaven, while glancing at my monthly calendar, I commented to my husband how odd it was that my week was open from Thursday to Sunday. It is an extremely rare occasion to look at my calendar and see four days in a row with no plans, no places to go, no classes to attend. I casually, without really thinking about it, said something about wondering if God had kept that part of my week open for a funeral. Grandma was in hospice, and could have been there up to six months or more. I really had no idea, but it was just strange to have such a large block of time open.
I do believe it is so. God protected my week for a funeral. For my temporary goodbye to my Grandma as she left this earth to be with Grandpa, to be with God in Heaven. Her funeral is the day that I had dreaded as a child.
Saying goodbye is hard. I know that it's only temporary, but it's hard. I guess when I say goodbye, I feel like I am saying goodbye to childhoodmemories, even though those years are long gone. It breaks open the wound of missing Grandpa, his safe arms and loving smile, words of wisdom that I miss. We don't say goodbye to the memories because it's the memories that keep those we love alive in our hearts. My head knows this but would someone please explain that to my heart?
