My 95 year old Granny died peacefully in her sleep this Friday. Good Friday for her, had she lived long enough to see today. I’m not of the Christian faith, but I did have to smile a bit at her timing.
I am sad to see her pass and I will miss her, but I am also so relieved for her. She has been ready for a long time now. She has been failing rapidly for the past 2 years. And with Parkinson’s stealing her dignity more and more as each year passed, she was so tired and frail.
My Mom called me Friday night, and I knew before the words came out of her mouth that my Granny was gone. And I cried immediately for my Mom and for her siblings…because they are now parentless. And well, that’s just about the saddest thing I can imagine. It’s also so hard to see the last of a generation pass on. Her memories were so faded as she grew older, and I have so many questions that I wish that I could have asked.
We are currently at my in-law’s for the holiday. It’s resplendent with the obligatory eggs, candy, and lovely long family meals. And even though the baby hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since we’ve been here (and we are all exhausted beyond belief) – it’s been exactly what we all have needed.
I was immediately torn about trying to get myself down South to attend her funeral. My numbers are for crap. My wbc and my neutrophils are even lower than they were last week. I’d have to fly – which entails surrounding myself with the germy masses. And that’s not even taking in account the energy that it would take to get myself organized to actually do it. My mom told me not to come, because it’s doesn’t make any sense to make myself sicker. I have to admit that I am relieved. But I am also sad that I won’t be there to honor her life in person. But I will most certainly be there in spirit.
So my dear granny, who’s twinkling eyes I inherited and passed along to my sweet baby girl.
I will miss you.
I will always remember your crocheted afghans. And especially how the colors got crazier as you got older and your eyes started to go bad.
The astonishing taste of your divinity candy, your pound cakes, and the boiled peanuts that only you could get right.
And I remember as a small child how fascinated I was with your hands. Your fingers in particular amazed me. I would squish the tips of them and watch in amazement as they would slowly reshape themselves. I suppose you were an older woman when I was born, and it seemed natural for your hands to be so wrinkled. I look at my own fingers now, and I can see that they will be just like yours.
I’ve also been told that I’ve inherited your nervous nature; a high strung gene that seems to float ruthlessly about in our family. I’ve tangled and danced with it for all of my life. Thankfully I have modern medicine on my side – so unlike the women of your generation.
I can see now that you fought and suffered with it for most of your life as well. Your hands were always a flutter, and you were known to wring your hands when anxious. My mother has physically grabbed my hands to make me stop doing that very same thing throughout my life. Not another hand wringer!
You sat quietly looking upon the world for the last 25 years of your life. You used to laugh about how you quite literally wore the seat out of your pants from sitting so long. You missed your husband, and this world was just not enough anymore.
And here it was that I always thought your pervasive quiet meant that you were unhappy. Now I wonder if you had just run out of things to say.
I know that you were ready to move on, my Dear One. I hope your passing was as peaceful as possible.
