Death shakes the bedrock of life. Losing a loved one isn’t just about that one person; it completely changes the culture of a family and the fabric of everything you know.
My grandma died. It’s so real to say it out loud. I could give it tender words, like she “passed away” or “we lost her” but those platitudes can’t convey the depth and rawness and shock of what we are living.
We expected it to some extent because that is how life works. She was not herself anymore, dealing with dementia and going from bed to chair to table to chair to table to chair to bed every day. She told the same stories repeatedly or didn’t seem engaged at all. We knew it was a decline. That does not mean we expected it to happen last Tuesday, nor did we understand what it would do to us.
Everything I know in life is traced back to her. I couldn’t exist without her. I live in a basement room with a cement floor she poured. I sleep under Afghans she crocheted. I live in her house which she organized for 45 years. The people I live with and love are her husband and children. The values I hold are traced back to her.
The last five years have been a decline. A few months ago i started helping her shower. A few weeks ago I started dressing her. A few days ago it was all ripped away.
She was a fierce woman. She was the oldest of three girls in a family whose father left when she was 9 and whose mother was depressed. She met my grandfather on a blind date and married him 7 months later. She moved to South Dakota, Indiana, Oregon, and Washington. She learned to garden and got her beautician license. She raised 4 children, fostered 13, and took in at least 3 runaways. She built churches and homes. She ran a beauty shop out of her backyard while caring for the family, managing the finances, growing and canning produce, facilitating holidays and entertaining guests. She painted, sewed, crocheted, cross stitched, and gardened. She even hunted and butchered game. She pulled my first tooth, gave me my first haircut, bought school clothes every year, and attended my special events. She loved to watch birds and squirrels in her feeders, and she kept tabs on the neighbors. She was stubborn and opinionated. She said words like “warsh” and “Mac-Donalds”. She accumulated piles of yarn and fabric, made clothes for me and my sister, costumes for my aunt’s elementary students, Barbie clothes, potholders for every occasion, and her own clothes that she wore to shreds. She passed on the skills to her children who are now carrying traditions.
The last two weeks were weird. As her mind slipped away, I ached that no one should have to live like that. We sent her to the hospital thinking she had an infection, but her heart was failing. I saw the moment she gave in and I watched her last breath.
The deepest pain comes from watching my grandpa hurt. He has been her eager companion for 68 years. Despite his own Parkinson’s he was patient and loving to her even when she was asking him to do all her bidding or nagging him about making the bed. Every night he brought her crackers and a popsicle for snack and filled her water cup. He was the only one who could convince her to get in the shower. He has been completely with us on this journey. We are still with him, living in his house, caring for his needs, but his love is no longer in the chair next to him. I saw the little boy inside this 88 year old man as he melted into a puddle when he had to say goodbye.
I don’t know what will come next. I’m terrified that my grandpa will give up. I will walk with him as we put things in order and eventually put my grandma’s life to rest.
I continue to relive what I watched last Tuesday and I also can’t believe it is real. We are taking it easy and hopefully taking our time, but we are all broken now.
Our lives go on and time will scar the wounds, but there is no certainty anymore. This is just the beginning of a journey none of us want to take.
Unsinkable 