End of an Era - RIP Grandma Anne
Yesterday, my mother called me. It was around 7:00pm. She was tentative. I wanted to know what was up. She told me.
Yes, my grandmother died yesterday, sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. I don't know; the orderly or nurse or whatever went in to check on her, and found she had stopped breathing. Then they called my father. I wonder if they broke it to him in a good way, or just said, "Sir, your mother died, you'll need to collect what few belongings she had."
Ok, so anyone (and I can count you on one hand, most likely) who has read this blog is probably aware that my grandmother has been ill for quite some time.
You know what? I don't want to write this entry anymore. It seems like it's something I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to write a memorial to the most difficult, obstinate, intelligent, loving, cantankerous, irascible woman the world has likely ever known. A woman who laughed in the face of cancer, even when it took both breasts and her husband. A woman who laughed in the face of heart disease, even when they installed the pace-maker and diagnosed her with the leaky valve which would, 5 years later, kill her. A woman who, given the chance, would probably have laughed off anthrax and pooh-poohed small pox (she was vaccinated decades ago). A woman who laughed off polio, even when it struck her son (my father) in his youth. A woman who lived through two World Wars, several armed conflicts, the creation of Israel as a state, men walking on the moon, and nearly a century of other trivial and not-so-trivial events.
Grandma remembered the day Kennedy was shot, even at the end. But she could never get my sister's name right on the first try.
The woman I nearly believed was immortal has finally left the stage, and there will be no encore performance.
For nearly five years, I have been waiting for this. Dreading this. Hoping somehow she would get better. The woman was 94 years old - there is no "better" at that point. I watched her decline these past few years, becoming frail. Old. Unable to care for herself any longer; I saw the shame in her eyes; knowing she needed assistance, but her pride would never let her admit it.
I watched as she entered dementia, becoming paranoid at times. I watched her smile on good days. I watched her smile on the bad ones, too.
The last time I saw her, it was December, and I was home visiting. I spent an afternoon with her, nearly two hours on a Tuesday afternoon. She hadn't been so lucid in years. I took pictures of the two of us, and brought her a new remote control for her television. We made plans for lunch the next day - I would bring her some kosher deli instead of the institutional food she hated so much. That night, around 10:00pm, she went into the hospital. She should have died that night. Her pulse was 60 beats per minute, but only because the pace-maker worked so well. Her blood pressure was so low her hands and feet felt like ice. Her lungs were full of fluid. But she lived through it. I couldn't believe it, but she did.
I didn't bring her lunch the next day, but I came and ate my own at her bedside in the hospital; she never knew I'd been there. Never woke up to see me. Nor was she awake the other times I visited while she was in the hospital, before I left town. The nurses told me she was very tired, and not to worry. So I didn't.
Then yesterday, the call. And now I am angry. I'm angry that I never got to say good-bye to her. I'm angry that everyone I know has called me to express their sympathy. I don't want sympathy! I'm tired to mechanically thanking people, well-meaning people. I'm tired of telling everyone I'm fine.
I honestly thought I'd be an emotional wreck over her death; she meant a great deal to me. We had a special relationship, unlike the bond she had with my sister, or my cousins. I was her favorite, simply because I made the time to speak with her, visit with her. Simply because I had more time to give than the others, really.
And now, my grandmother is gone. My parents visited with her Sunday, before she died. She told my father, "I'm going home tomorrow." He laughed, and told her she was home.
She sure showed us, huh?
Good-bye Grandma Anne. I love you and miss you.
Yes, my grandmother died yesterday, sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. I don't know; the orderly or nurse or whatever went in to check on her, and found she had stopped breathing. Then they called my father. I wonder if they broke it to him in a good way, or just said, "Sir, your mother died, you'll need to collect what few belongings she had."
Ok, so anyone (and I can count you on one hand, most likely) who has read this blog is probably aware that my grandmother has been ill for quite some time.
You know what? I don't want to write this entry anymore. It seems like it's something I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to write a memorial to the most difficult, obstinate, intelligent, loving, cantankerous, irascible woman the world has likely ever known. A woman who laughed in the face of cancer, even when it took both breasts and her husband. A woman who laughed in the face of heart disease, even when they installed the pace-maker and diagnosed her with the leaky valve which would, 5 years later, kill her. A woman who, given the chance, would probably have laughed off anthrax and pooh-poohed small pox (she was vaccinated decades ago). A woman who laughed off polio, even when it struck her son (my father) in his youth. A woman who lived through two World Wars, several armed conflicts, the creation of Israel as a state, men walking on the moon, and nearly a century of other trivial and not-so-trivial events.
Grandma remembered the day Kennedy was shot, even at the end. But she could never get my sister's name right on the first try.
The woman I nearly believed was immortal has finally left the stage, and there will be no encore performance.
For nearly five years, I have been waiting for this. Dreading this. Hoping somehow she would get better. The woman was 94 years old - there is no "better" at that point. I watched her decline these past few years, becoming frail. Old. Unable to care for herself any longer; I saw the shame in her eyes; knowing she needed assistance, but her pride would never let her admit it.
I watched as she entered dementia, becoming paranoid at times. I watched her smile on good days. I watched her smile on the bad ones, too.
The last time I saw her, it was December, and I was home visiting. I spent an afternoon with her, nearly two hours on a Tuesday afternoon. She hadn't been so lucid in years. I took pictures of the two of us, and brought her a new remote control for her television. We made plans for lunch the next day - I would bring her some kosher deli instead of the institutional food she hated so much. That night, around 10:00pm, she went into the hospital. She should have died that night. Her pulse was 60 beats per minute, but only because the pace-maker worked so well. Her blood pressure was so low her hands and feet felt like ice. Her lungs were full of fluid. But she lived through it. I couldn't believe it, but she did.
I didn't bring her lunch the next day, but I came and ate my own at her bedside in the hospital; she never knew I'd been there. Never woke up to see me. Nor was she awake the other times I visited while she was in the hospital, before I left town. The nurses told me she was very tired, and not to worry. So I didn't.
Then yesterday, the call. And now I am angry. I'm angry that I never got to say good-bye to her. I'm angry that everyone I know has called me to express their sympathy. I don't want sympathy! I'm tired to mechanically thanking people, well-meaning people. I'm tired of telling everyone I'm fine.
I honestly thought I'd be an emotional wreck over her death; she meant a great deal to me. We had a special relationship, unlike the bond she had with my sister, or my cousins. I was her favorite, simply because I made the time to speak with her, visit with her. Simply because I had more time to give than the others, really.
And now, my grandmother is gone. My parents visited with her Sunday, before she died. She told my father, "I'm going home tomorrow." He laughed, and told her she was home.
She sure showed us, huh?
Good-bye Grandma Anne. I love you and miss you.
posted by StofCircumstance at 12:34 AM
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