As
she lay propped up in her hospital bed, I could still see her. The voice that so often said exactly what was
on her mind without filter or reserve couldn't escape her lips, but it was
still clear that she was certainly not an empty shell. As the doctors talked about her and moved
her, the familiar look of disgusted and obstinate indignation flashed across
her face, creased by the passage of 83 years along with the many storms she had
already faced in her life.
She
knew the pain of losing a husband - both to death and to divorce. The agony of losing a child, both infant and
adult, was no stranger to her. She had
experienced the pressure of financial struggle as she raised seven children
largely on her own. The fear that comes
with having to start over from scratch on a path in life that wasn't
necessarily chosen was familiar to her.
Hospital visits became commonplace as she faced physical struggle upon
struggle, including back surgery, knee surgery, and multiple strokes.
That
last stroke was the reason she was all but immobilized in this infernal
place. She never was very fond of
hospitals or doctors. Her trials in life
had made her strong and tenacious, but she was still only human. She had always been a stubbornly independent
woman who knew her own mind, but now she could no longer expressly communicate
it. The turmoil of such a paradox was
evident in her eyes.
But
as soon as her gaze drifted from her unwelcome care providers to one of her
children or grandchildren, her expression transformed. She'd smile and reach as best she could for
her loved ones. For just a few moments,
she'd find some bit of relief. She
wasn't alone.
Though
she wouldn't really admit it, my grandmother hated being alone. Everyone in the family knew that if she called
once, two more calls would soon follow.
She would ask how to spell a word, whether or not we knew the last name
of some acquaintance from long ago, or if we knew where another family member
was at. My mom often said she thought
that Grandma just wanted a reason to call.
She loved her family.
She
was a skilled woman in so many areas.
When she had more of her physical strength, her yard was always lined
with well-tended, beautiful flowers.
Many years ago, she decorated cakes like a pro. I've been told there was a time when she was
also good at working on her own car.
Being a single mother for many years made her resourceful and competent
in areas she may not have been otherwise.
Several of her children and grandchildren have intricate doilies, dishrags,
hanging kitchen towels, and/or blankets in their homes that she had crocheted
or knitted for them. My own home is
filled with those little reminders, including a beautiful Native American doll
she gave me that wears a wedding dress that she made. She was precise in her work, which resulted
in high quality creations. Her homemade
dinner rolls were long anticipated and greatly coveted each Thanksgiving. Several other family members have learned the
recipe, but somehow it's just never quite the same as when Grandma made
them. She beamed with pride and was
delighted when her kids and grand-kids appreciated and enjoyed her work.
I
saw the same look of pride when I would show her a crocheted blanket that I was
working on or a wedding cake that I had baked and decorated. She was thrilled that some of her children
and grandchildren learned her recipe for dinner rolls. Passing her skills along and seeing them
continue for generations brought her great joy.
Sitting
in that hospital room, I thought of how grateful I was to have had my Grandma
in my life; I know not everyone has that opportunity. In my mind, memories pushed their way to the
surface through the fog of the reality that was before me.
When I was very
young, I was in Estes Park with her, and she bought me a panda bear Beanie Baby
that I adored.
In the years
that followed, I remember playing with my cousins and celebrating many holidays
at her house. I would jump on her trampoline with Cassidy and go on Spider-Man
missions in her loft with Chris using the Battleship game boards as our
computers. With Cody, Andy, Bryson, or my brother, I played with her Marvel
figurines that had belonged to some of my uncles. The boys always wanted the Hulk. One particularly plague-like year, we chased
and caught grasshoppers in her backyard by the fistful.
I loved making
101 Dalmatians name cards using a program she had on her computer and playing
her Tarzan computer game.
She helped my
mom pull some of my baby teeth when I was being difficult.
When I qualified
for the State Spelling Bee, she drove my mom, a friend, and I to the event out
of town. I laugh now because I remember
feeling so carsick due to her sudden stop-and-go style of driving, but I'm so
glad she was a part of that.
She was there to
see me graduate from High School.
The night that
Jon and I got engaged, we showed up at her doorstep at a time which we didn't
realize was long past her bedtime. Her
gruff voice demanded to know who was there.
Her tone softened when we revealed our identity, and she opened the door
so we could tell her our exciting news.
To my husband's dismay, she was still in her bathrobe when she gave us
both happy hugs. That was the first time
he met her.
Seven months
later, she was there when Jon and I became husband and wife. She had worked hard in the weeks leading up
to the wedding making doilies, some of which dressed up the reception tables
and others that were shaped into flower girl baskets.
She
smiled at me, breaking the reel of images in my mind. "Angel." I could almost hear her say the name that she
used for me. I wished I could fill the
hospital room with more things that would make her smile: Cali (her cat), Abel
(the dog she had when I was young), hummingbirds, a bag of frozen M&M's,
country music, food from Golden Corral or Pizza Hut, or her wall packed with
pictures of all her many grandchildren.
Instead, I just held her hand.
On
September 13, the stroke ultimately took my Grandma. She had her children with her, and she went
peacefully. Even though she lived a long
life, it's still hard to say goodbye. As
Nickole, another one of my cousins, put it, "When you have convinced
yourself that someone is going to live forever, it's a hard thing when they
don't."
Though
the empty void produced by the loss of my grandma is painful, I know I don't
have to despair. I have confidence,
comfort, and peace in knowing that this life is not all there is. I know Jesus, the One who conquered death and
the grave. I know that those who have
trusted in Him are with Him the moment that their soul leaves their body. Not only that, but He is coming back one day
with all those who have gone before to take the rest of us who believe in Him
to be with Him forever. Even in death,
there is hope.
I
love you, Grandma.