Mark had posed the question- Why do we do this?
I was practically raised by my grandmother, and then became her primary caregiver after a stroke a couple of years ago. She was on Hospice for a short while, and although we didn't have a particularly grand experience or connection with the company providing the care. The experience of her death changed me dramatically, and gave me the desire to help others have something to hold on to that was positive and special.
I wrote this post on my own blog not long after her death, but long before I had worked through my grief enough, to be in a position to be able to help others. This was written just before Christmas two years ago.
I went to the cemetery today for the first time since Gram's funeral. I am not really the kind of person that thinks that the deceased hang out in the cemetery. After my Gramps died, I made several trips a month with Gram, to make sure his grave site was taken care of. I would always pause and think of him. Not like an image of him hovering over the headstone, delighted that I had placed fresh flowers on a slab of concrete with his name; more of a pause to think of his soft hands and twinkly blue eyes, of him teaching me to swear correctly and with emphasis, or the incessant teasing he could provide. Then I would hop back in the car and on to the other several graves that needed tending to.
I have always preferred to think of my deceased loved ones, fishing "southern style" like you see on
Swamp People, or haunting people who have scorned them. I never think of them wasting time in the cemetery. Maybe I am too clinical, but I've seen a dead body or two, or seventy-five, and the spirit doesn't seem too linger very long, at least in the ER, they may just be as anxious as I am to get out of there come quitting time. Stop me if this sounds like a Hallmark card.
Gram was a super freak (in the most endearing way) about tending the graves. We always covered multiple family members weekly, and many more who got the treatment on holidays. I remember a year that one of our Lake Powell trips happened over Memorial Day. When I mentioned that we wouldn't be coming home early to decorate the graves, it was devastation, despair, disgust, and a mutterance about pioneers. Basically the Gradma Kuber Ross stages of inflicting guilt.
The thought has entered my mind once or twice, since the funeral, that my Gram is going to expect me to keep her grave up, and she will probably drop in from time to time, just to patrol it. Several times after dropping Emma off at school, I have known that 2 hours would be the perfect amount of time to fly to Heber, drop some flowers, have a melt down, and fly back home, but I just couldn't do it. Part of me is holding on to the idea that she is still at home, waiting for me to have a day off so we could get our maximum allotments of coupons at Walgreens, decorate graves, split an Arby's sandwhich, and say horrible things about the neighbor across the street that complimented Gram on her new teeth .(some people have no tact, and this perfectly innocent lady just drives my Gram nuts)
What I wouldn't give for one more day to hang with her.
The last day of her life, my Mom called about noon and said that Gram wasn't responding. Having just spent the night there, I thought my mom was being dramatic, but I was instantly filled with dread, AND hope, that this could be the day she was free. As we loaded up the Hoodlums, and headed to Heber, everything seemed so surreal. It was a beautiful day, and as I entered Gram's bedroom it was very obvious that her death was imminent.
We spent the afternoon at Gram's bedside, neighbors and family members filing about the room, staying just a few minutes to share a story about Gram. I watched the blinds above her head move with the wind and felt so comforted by the sound of the aluminum tinking against the window frame, a noise that I had long listened to as a child sleeping in the room across the hall. I looked out the window that she had added specially to their house, when my parents built theirs next door, in order to be able to see what we were at all times. I thought of all those times in my life that she had kept track of me. When my parents were out of town, and she didn't recognize the car in the driveway, I got a call. When I was out playing basketball in the driveway, she hollered "Nice shot" from the window. When Dave and I were renting the basement as newlyweds, she would watch for our cars to pull in and then give us a call to come and get some food.
Watching her now tiny frame in the bed, I was moved to remember the many times I spent next to her there. From my childhood naps, snuggled tightly between my grandparents, my legs between my Gramp's shins, and my back pressed tight against my Gram, a veritable granddaughter sandwich; to my late teenage years, flopped on the bed, whining about whatever mishap was currently affecting me. That same bed became a welcome rest when Dr. Phil became popular, and Gram and I would lay there after a nap and watch him "tell people like it was." She liked him because he was a straight shooter, I liked him, because he got Gram all fired up. When my babies started to come along, we moved the Dr. Phil party out to the living room so they could nap in the drawer she cleared out of the old bureau.
I was so grateful that the Hoodlums got to have Gram in their life, and they were very comfortable with her death as well. All through the afternoon, they would come back into the bedroom, and climb right up on the bed to rub her hand or give her a hug. Emma kept the mood light, by popping in and asking if "Gram was dead yet?" I can't even begin to say how thankful I am for the knowledge I have of what lies beyond this life, and the comfort and excitement I had for her on this last day.
Before we knew it, the neighbors and family were all gone, and it was the last light of day. My Mom and I sat on either side of the bed, hand in hand with Gram. We talked softly until her breathing changed, and then I stroked her face softly and assured her that she could go. In the most incredible moment I have ever experienced, she was gone, and I was forever changed.
Six weeks later I wish for that same feeling everyday. I miss her so much, and didn't realize how much of my time was really spent with her, or thinking/worrying about her. I don't really know what to do with myself. Twice, I have had full blown meltdowns in Smiths, once when a checker asked me where my Gram was that day, and the next time when one offered their condolences.
Most recently, while Dave and I were eating coconut shrimp, I lost it, when out of the blue I remembered spending most of Christmas Eve one year, peeling and deveining shrimp, for our annual Fondue night with Gram and Gramps. I was pregnant at the time, and became so disenchanted with the shrimp process, I couldn't eat a one, by the time the party rolled around. They have spent Christmas in our home for the last 8 years, and I can't even imagine what this year will be like without them.
I thought that our roles had reversed in the last several months, and that I was taking care of her, but clearly I see now that she has always taken care of me. Looking at her grave today, it was a mess, just like me. There is still no grass where she is laid, the headstone is not settled, and there are no beautiful flowers to honor such an amazing couple. She would never had stood for such neglect, or let me wallow this long, for something that is really actually wonderful.
