Eva

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.