My Grandma is dying. Even now, as I type, my phone is sitting beside me and I keep glancing down at its screen like somehow I might not hear its ring over the clacking of the keyboard. It's silly, I know, and yet I keep on doing it over and over, the action of it somewhat reassuring. This is not a sad passing, at least not completely. Her body is used up, broken, her mind, more and more lately, the same. She is not happy, often in pain and ready, I think, to go. But still, she's my Grandma, and I'll miss her.
My grandma was not your typical grandma. I had one of those, a grandma straight from the pages of a story book. She belongs to my mom. This one belongs to my dad. This is the grandma that taught you how to play cards, let you drink caffeine once in a while, and let you stay up past your bedtime. She was the one that always had Snickers bars in her freezer and a drawer full of the good stuff somewhere else. She was the grandma that told you what short sheeting a bed was and then only manages a laugh and a "You little stinks!" when she climbs into bed and finds herself victim to her own prank later that night. She made fascinating concoctions like fruit salad smothered in Miracle Whip and carrot pudding with caramel sauce, but she evened that out with applesauce cookies, chocolate cake and cinnamon rolls. She had Easter egg hunts in her garden and took you out to fancy restaurants like Sizzler. She sent you a dollar on your birthday, even when you were turning 30. She was the kind of grandma who let you listen to four straight hours of "Maneater" on the tape player in her giant Chrysler when you were lucky enough to get to go on a road trip with her. It was on one of those road trips, when I was eight or so, that she introduced me to fine chocolate. She took me to the shop and bought me a single dark orange creme, her favorite. She handed it to me like she was passing on an ancient female secret, and that started what has become a lifelong relationship with the good dark stuff. It was an experience that obviously had an impact on me; here we are 30ish years later, and I remember it like it was yesterday, but the older I get the more I realize it was less about the chocolate and more about the way she made me feel. I was special and important enough to take part in that ritual with her. She made everyone feel that way. She was a great lady. The proud matriarch of our big crazy family.
She was also a widow. My Grandad died in 1979. Which means, if you do the math, that my grandma was alone for three decades. She never remarried, even though she was relatively young when Grandad died. I don't know for sure if that was because of a lack of opportunity or by choice, but I don't think that it ever crossed my Grandma's mind that she could be married to anyone else. She loved him and missed him. On another one of those road trips we were on together, we passed an old couple driving an RV with plates from back east. Grandma's eyes got watery and she swore (though she'd never admit it) and said it just wasn't fair that that woman got to be old and travel around in an RV with her husband and she didn't. It was a rare break, one that I doubt she intended on sharing with her pre-teen granddaughter, but a revealing one, and I remember sitting there for a few minutes trying to figure out if I was supposed to say something. I didn't, neither did she, and we went back to listening to "Maneater". Now, the idea of my Grandma criss-crossing the country in an RV is laughable (that would mean giving up her weekly hair and nail appointments), but it was a rare glimpse, at least for me, into the depths of her loneliness.
The last several years my grandma's mind has been slipping. Her usually sharp mind would easily forget conversations had only moments before, and days, months and even years became jumbled in her head. Her past was, more and more, becoming her present. My dad, who had lunch with her every Tuesday, was reporting more often that she was speaking of my Grandad, her parents and siblings (who have been long gone) in the present tense. Often, she would be angry with Grandad, because while he would be with her at night, when she would wake in the morning he would be gone, off galavanting, she was sure, with the neighbors at the assisted living center where she lives. My dad believed this was one more sign of her declining mind. I choose to believe that Grandad was actually there at night, easing his scared sweetheart's transition from our world to his.
My dad told me yesterday that he hopes his mother passes today; that Grandma deserves a Valentine's Day with her husband after thirty years apart. I told Ben last night I would give anything to witness that reunion. Later, as I lay in the dark next my own sweetheart, I realized that while I may not witness it with my eyes, it won't matter. After thirty years apart, the joy contained in that first embrace can't help but be felt on our side of the veil.
So safe journey, Grandma. Tell Grandad I said hi.
