My grandmother. She's on my mind tonight. But not the shadow of the woman that I sat beside during her last days in the nursing home. No, that wasn't my Grammie Lee. No, I'm thinking of the woman I remember so vividly as a fixture in every stage of my 28 years of life. A strong, fine woman, who raised two sons, who gave her five grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren. A spitfire, with a quick wit, a warm heart, a strong sense of humor, and a steady hand, who was always good in a crisis, and kind in a time of need. A woman who at times was my biggest critic, but was always my strongest advocate, and never was bashful to say what was on her mind. Tonight, my thoughts are with her.
And while I sit here, sipping a strong cup of peppermint tea, tripping and stumbling down memory lane, I'm smiling, despite my tears. I cry not for her, for that would be an injustice to a woman that faced each day fearlessly, and has so much earned this rest that is so much a blessing. No... I cry for us left behind, and the hole that will be left in our lives that will never quite be filled.
My oldest memories of Grammie are priceless to me... My third birthday, after she had returned from Florida, and gave me a Cabbage Patch Doll, and a Mickey Mouse purse, which started my love affair with handbags that I've never outgrown. A curvy woman with a short stature, 1970's era winged glasses, and sensible shoes, picking strawberries with a four-year-old version of me at MacKenzie's farm. A woman with a big smile, with a glint of mischief in her eyes, as she'd hand my brother and I red markers, and the old Sears Christmas Catalog every Thanksgiving to circle our presents... the louder, or messier the better. The smell of pies in the oven, and flour in the air, as I stood on a stool so I could reach the table, as she stood behind me with her hands on mine, and we rolled out pie crusts for holiday meals. A blue Oldsmobile with velour seats, where she sat with me bawling in her lap the whole way to the hospital when I tore my Achilles Tendon when I was in preschool -- she sang to me the whole way. I remember popcorn made on the stove before movies, bedtime stories, and ice-cream filled crepes for breakfast. I remember getting angry at my mother, packing bags, and "running away," to Grammie's house... two houses down the road. I remember proud smiles from front row seats in every single choir concert, drama show, and SCAMP production I was ever in, complete with flowers and cheers. I remember chagrin over choosing a college so far away, and understanding when I was flat broke and needed grocery money. I remember worrisome conversations that would lead to amusement when I worked in prison, and heartache when I joined the army. I remember pride, relief, and tears when I came home from Afghanistan, and a fierce determination for me to get what I wanted when I went into Law Enforcement. And I remember a brave, beautiful soul who taught me the true meaning of grace as Cancer took her health, her independence, and eventually her life. But mostly, I remember love.
Two weeks ago, I sat at her bedside in the nursing home. It was the beginning of the "bad days" being the norm. She asked me about work, "those boys" that I work with. She asked me to promise me I'd be safe. I told her I would do my best. She said, "That's all anyone can ask for." She was quiet for moment after that, and then gave me what was probably the most heartfelt monologue I've ever heard from her.
"You did good, kid. I fussed, and I worried, and had the choices been mine, I'd have made different ones. But you stood for what you wanted, and that I've always respected in a person. You loved when you should have, and had the wits to walk away when love wasn't enough. You saw the world, and had the sense to come home after, and through it all, you made time for a difficult old woman. You did good, kid. And I'm so proud."
I was taken aback, and my eyes teared. "I love you, you know."
She smiled. "Oh I know, dear." And her eyes closed, the conversation having used up her energy for the day. "I'm ready to be with your grandfather. It's been such a long time, and I can't wait."
But she did wait, two more long weeks, during which she suffered more than she deserved. And as the days passed, she interacted less and less, as her strength gave way to cancer that consumed her. Her last words to me, though, four days before she passed away were that she loved me, after telling me that I needn't come to see her on my work days, because it was too much for me. I told her I remembered a woman that sat at my bedside day after day when I fought pneumonia in the hospital when I was nine, who read me bedtime stories, and would call after visiting hours were over, because she was worried I would be scared to be alone. "So I'll be here," I told her. And I was. The last few days, I doubt she knew it, because truthfully, I don't think she was still there. Her body lingered, but everything that was her was long gone.
And so tonight, as James Taylor sings softly in the background, armed with tissues, and peppermint tea, I hurt. And so, while I'm not particularly religious, I will leave you with a prayer that hung in my grandmother's kitchen for years... may the sentiment carry me through this grief...
"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking as He did, this sinful world
As it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
If I surrender to His will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.
-Reinhold Niebuhr
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