People often have a tendency to idolize loved ones who passed on--build them up as martyrs. Grandmama doesn't need building up. It was always apparent to me growing up that she really was a saint.
The thing that's getting me tonight is greed. Grandmama wrote a little note to Heidi, my beloved baby niece (who I love to pieces.) It is a tragedy that Heidi won't remember Grandmama. Jake and Kalli's memories will be faint and few. People always told me that about Granny--Grandmama's mother. I wish I'd known her. I am so grateful I had as much Grandmama time as I had. First born. Twenty years. Sheer luck. You know, I still want more. The really exceptional people in this world should become immortal to keep all us sinners and naughty folk in line, happy, and safe. Guardians of what is right in the world.
She's still fighting hard. Breathing hard and sleeping all the time. From what I understand, she responded to very little throughout the day--if anything. The two words (I'm probably too proud about this) we got were "Love you" prompted by my and Abby's saying farewells for the evening. I got six smiles total tonight. Couple big ones--prompted by kisses, leg rubs, and "I love you's." No joke--I'm not sure I'm prouder of anything in my life. These smiles are representative of two successes: 1. Grandmama loves me and 2. I made her happy.
I have peace knowing both these things. I know it sounds morbid, but I really have prepared for this my whole life. I am a deeply, deeply compassionate person, but I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. Maybe it's my cynical and self defensive nature, but as soon as I know I passionately care for something, I prepare myself to leave it.
Grandparents usually die first. I lost my first grandparent--Grandaddy--when I was seven and I knew then that immortality was a lie. I've soaked up every ounce of Grandmama time I could. If I randomly felt like telling her just how much I loved her, I did. If I wanted to play cards ona Friday night, I'd call her. Abby and I had an advantage the other kids didn't: we lived five minutes away. Some summer days, I'd walk over. I feel like that's a pretty rare occurrence in this day and age.
She still is Grandmama--looking beautiful, resting, making an extra effort to smile for the grandkids.
I'm not sure it's hit me that this illness is not a spell. Her fading and departure are permanent. She's not going to see another show. No more Grandmama at Christmas. No more shopping for a birthday present. No more watching old movie musicals at her house. No more hand and foot. No more eyerolling at her husband. No more perfect little chuckles. No more prayers before bed. No more awards at church. No more seeing Grandmama at Friendship House. No more magical mashed potatoes. No more cards from her. No more hugs. No more kisses. No more voicemails. No more "I love my boo." or "I love dos." I will miss her everday probably as long as I live.
Maybe it's the shock, but it still just doesn't seem permanent right now. She is going where she belongs. And she's really handled it all incredibly beautifully, intelligently, and gracefully.
I really do believe that souls are separate entities from the body, at least at a certain point. I really do believe in heaven; I have to. Even if I'm not sure where I'm going after I die, I'm glad she is certain she is--and happy to go there.
Grieving's a process. I'm sure things will constantly remind me of her for quite some time. Lots of tears. But I'm so happy that her soul will be released from an aching body and that she will be fully restored and watching over me soon. I figure she'll take very, very good care of me. And if God does exist, I imagine she will be on his highest council. Vice President of Heaven--I like it. I'd campaign for that.
I've got the ring she gave me on my 16th birthday on my right hand. I love it, and play with it in happiness and sadness.
Right now, the name of the game is to keep going. Wake up. Get out of bed. Go to school. Get what you need to done. You can do this. Or at least you can try.
So for now, I'm trying. Trying for you, Uno.
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