[warning]This post is kind of scattered, because my thoughts are raw. Also, this post involves death, which might be a trigger.[/warning]
Written at about 6: I just got word that my grandma might not survive the weekend. Probably not even until tomorrow night.
It’s silly that I’ve known that this could be coming for more than a month, now, and have felt absolutely no sorrow for it; she’s lived an amazing life, and she gets to be with her husband and daughter again. Her only daughter. And now, in her last hours, I’m so sad! Suddenly, I’m not thinking about how SHE feels about this, I’m suddenly realizing I have feelings, too!
This is the woman who held my hand through the delivery of my daughter. This is the woman who helped me out of so many scrapes, especially when everything hit the fan. She loved me and always had my back. I guess, up until now, I’ve just been happy for her chance to move on to “the next great adventure.” When I went to visit her a few weeks ago, we talked about life. We talked about everything she was going to have to go through. She told me she wasn’t afraid of the other side, she was just afraid about how long it would take to get there.
I look back on the day my daughter was born differently, now. At the time, I called her because my ex was an hour and a half away and didn’t want to leave his meeting (at the time, I thought he couldn’t leave it. But my perspective has changed since then. No boss would expect a man to miss the birth of a child. Not in Small-town, Snowbank where we used to live). Grandma had told me that if I needed anything, all I had to do was call. Well, when it looked like I was about to have my very first baby all by myself, I called! It was a little awkward having your grandma there. But now… now I’m so glad I did. All of her other grandkids talk about all she did for them. But she never did that for any of them. Just me. Years later, she told me how much it meant for her to be there. She only had one daughter, as I said. She told me at that moment, I became her daughter, too. And she got to hold her daughter all over again, and help her daughter through life, all over again. Her daughter made a lot of hard choices in her life, picking men about like I picked them; some really dangerous and oppressive, and one really, really great guy. Grandma never judged me for my past, just helped me pick up the pieces. She never called my ex names, but helped me through all the problems he left me, even though he caused problems for her, too. Really expensive problems. She’s my hero.
Written at about 10: When I told my daughter about Grandma, she took it really hard. At bedtime, she prayed the sweetest, most inspired prayer. “And please bless Grandma, and let her have fun with Adella. And help her be happy up there. And help us be happy down here. ” It was said just about the time my grandmother actually slipped to the other side. Adella is my sister’s angel baby, she lost last spring.
Help us be happy down here…
