I had a
dream about you last night. You were home. You had made it out of hospice, and
you looked great. You were genuinely happy and at peace. You were wearing a
wig. For some reason, you had lost your hair in hospice. You were confident it
would grow back w/ no grey as it had after your chemo all those years ago. As a
matter of fact, you looked much as you had thirty years ago, but as slim as you
are now. We talked and laughed. It was like nearly every other visit I have had
with you my whole life. I know my subconscious is conflating your cancer and
your current condition because you weren’t supposed to survive your cancer, and
you are now in hospice, so your odds of long term survival are pretty low. I
know what my heart wants, but, after seeing you in hospice, I know what you
need. You enjoyed many moments on our Thanksgiving visit, but you were also
sad. You have lost so many people you love in the last few years, and have had
more than your share of health crises. The blow of losing your baby brother in
August seemed to have really taken the stuffing out of you, though. He was a
good man.
You have
always been one of the strongest people in my life. You lost your own mother
too young, and had to deal w/ a succession of stepmothers, some okay and some
who seemed to take their cues on stepmothering from the brothers Grimm. You
moved to MI to live w/ family in your late teens. You met Papa while you were
on a double date w/ other people. He accidentally slammed your hand in the car
door, and you were married a short while later on your birthday. I am certain
your marriage has had its ups and downs as any marriage will, but you have been
married for over 66 years, and I can see how much you still love each other in
everything you do for each other. You had three wonderful sons together. You
helped your own siblings. You more than survived cancer; you beat it into
submission and told it where it could go. You were never afraid of new
technology. You were the first person I knew who had a microwave. You had a VHS
player very early, and your camcorder never left your shoulder for a while. You
were online when other people your age shuddered at the thought of a computer.
You have always been ready to tackle anything. You have always been active and
helping others. Despite your schedule, you always, always made time for anyone
who needed you. I used to think that your church wouldn’t get by w/out you (you
ran the Sunday school, were active in the bell choir, and the chimes, and the
ladies’ committee, etc. etc.) and the solid spiritual foundation you and Papa
provided for us helped me to find my own calling as an adult. You are a thoroughly
amazing woman.
As the
oldest grandchild, I have had the great privilege of having you in my life
longer than any of the others. You were still working as a real estate agent
when I was young. I loved going to houses w/ you, and going into your office at
your house was always fun. I still have a couple of your business pens.
You used to
zip around in your burgundy Grand Prix with your CB on, which is how you
received your Grandma name. Again, as the oldest grandchild, I was the one who christened
you Grandma PJ, despite that having absolutely nothing to do with your given
name. The truckers on the CB called you Puddle Jumper, or PJ, for short. I
picked up on that, and the rest is history. All of your grandchildren know you
as Grandma PJ.
My sister
and I were the first two grandchildren on both sides of the family, but we were
the only two on your side for several years. A weekend just wasn’t a weekend
without an overnight w/ you and Papa. You cooked with and for us, baked with
us, let us run around in your huge yard w/ all the wonderful space and the things
Papa had made for us to play in and on, we did crafts, colored, read stories,
watched programs (Murder She Wrote for you and Golden Girls for Papa loom large
in my memory), and were just little girls at your house. We used to sit on the
corner of your counter top and “supervise” while you worked. We learned how to
supervise from Papa. Eventually, I moved
up from supervising to sometimes cooking for you and Papa. I made turkey
lasagna and garlic bread for you that first time I took over your kitchen.
As happy as
I was for you when you remodeled your kitchen I was a little sad to see the
supervising corner go. We were far too old to sit there, but it was our corner. Of course, the only kitchen my children and
the youngest grandchildren have known is your current kitchen, which also holds
many special memories. My husband, sister, and I have all made full
Thanksgiving dinners in there together while you hovered anxiously around and
drove us all crazy. Then, everything would turn out perfectly, and we’d have a
great meal w/ everyone, all of your sons, their wives, their children, and
their children’s children. It was our holiday celebration on the Saturday after
Thanksgiving. I also have photos of you teaching my oldest to make monkey
bread. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of you making cookies w/ my children
and my youngest cousins this past Thanksgiving. Had I known it would likely be
your last, I would have loaded up on the pictures. I will always have the
memory, though.
Sunday
dinners at your house were always a highlight of the week. There would almost
always be some sort of dessert, and often, my youngest uncle and his best
friend would be there. You used to laugh when I would tell you we couldn’t eat
b/c Jim (the best friend) wasn’t there yet. My favorite dessert was Yum. I
think it might actually have been your own version of pistachio pudding, but I
loved that stuff. I never wanted the recipe, though. It just seemed like
something that only you could make. I’m not sure if I regret never learning the
secrets of Yum or not. I remember your battle of wills w/ my sister over
onions. You would chop them so finely and she would work to pick out every
little sliver. You eventually conceded and started just chopping them so she could
pick them out easily. I am pretty sure I can count on one hand the number of
times that you weren’t the more stubborn one, though.
The major
source of discord between my sister and me when we would visit was a spoon w/ stars on the handle. We
both always wanted it, and felt that the other one always got it. We argued
over that silly spoon so many times. I remember you tossing it down the stairs
and telling us no one could have it. We still try to beat each other to it when
we are both visiting. My sister wasn’t able to make it this Thanksgiving, and I
took pictures of the spoon to send to her.
As we got
older, our brother arrived, and then two cousins. Of course, our cousins lived
out-of-state, so we didn’t see them all the time, but it was always great when
everyone was around, and you and Papa loved it. I also fell ill around that
time. Of all the people outside of our household, you and Papa were the two
best about just letting my life go on. You were a source of quiet and peace
when I needed it. You taught me to crochet, which gave me something to do when
I ran out of books and became tired of television in the hospital. It is also a
lifelong skill, and I crocheted all of my children’s homecoming outfits; the
last was finished up in the hospital. When my sister started going on vacation
w/ family friends, who were afraid to take me, you and Papa loaded me up in the
Blazer and took me on a trip to WI. I still remember the sandwiches we ate at
the rest stop on the way there. The most important thing you did was really
listen to me when I talked. We would stay up late chatting about all kinds of
things while we crocheted. You let me pour out my heart. That didn’t change as
I got older. You, as much as anyone, saw me through my parents’ divorce. You
and Papa paid to have a 1-800 number when I went away to college so I could
call whenever I needed to do so. My youngest uncle also used it as he was away
at school as well.
There are
so many wonderful memories. I always looked forward to my new crocheted
slippers in my Christmas stocking at your house. Your slippers are a bit famous,
you know. The day before you went into the hospital this last time one of my
best friends from high school told me that she wore the slippers you made for
her until they fell apart. You were good to my friends. You and Papa hosted my
thirteenth birthday party. It was a great time, and I hope you stopped being
upset about the over-cooked spaghetti noodles at some point. We all loved the
party. It felt so grown-up to be in the finished part of the basement, talking,
laughing, and having a dance party. We couldn’t have done it at my house. You
also made it to every choir concert and play. You loved listening to me sing,
so much so that you asked me to sing “If Tomorrow Never Comes” at your and Papa’s
golden anniversary celebration. I didn’t think I did that well, but you were so
happy with it. You had all of your children and grandchildren performing that
day. Your pride in us has always been simultaneously encouraging and humbling.
You and
Papa also drove me to college that first time. My parents were each unable to
do so for different reasons. We stopped and saw my aunt, uncle (your oldest),
and cousins on the way. We had to leave a bit earlier than I would’ve liked b/c
of it. I was seeing a boy and my teenaged heart was breaking. That boy and I
broke up not long after (distance, etc.), but the great memories of being able
to celebrate my cousins’ birthdays with them live on. Good choice, Grandma. I
remember you and Papa joking that you didn’t know Epcot was so close to my
college town b/c of the weather ball that we saw on the way in. You stayed as
long and as late as you could, and then you headed back to MI, and left me in
MO. You would later say that you and Papa had to talk each other out of coming
back to get me, but leaving me there was the best thing you ever did for me.
You were right. I probably would’ve hopped back into your minivan and gone home
if you’d come back, and while I would have gone to school in MI, I never would
have grown the way I did and met the people I did. Some of my best friends and
my husband would have never come into my life if you had not had the strength
to let me go. The above-mentioned 1-800 number helped me make it through the
terrible homesickness that first semester.
Now, now it
is time for me to find the strength to let you go, and I am not exaggerating
when I say it is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever contemplated. See,
you and Papa are supposed to live forever. When we come to MI, we land safely
at your house. We stay up and chat. You show me what you’ve been working on in
your sewing room. You make quilts, bags, and clothes now. The arthritis made
crocheting too difficult years and years ago. All of my children, and my
husband and I, along w/ many others, have blankets and other soft goods made by
you. The idea that the last time that happened in November was the last time it
will happen is devastating.
I meant to
call you the day before you went to the hospital. One thing after another got
in the way, and I vowed I would do it the next day. As a matter of fact, I was
literally picking up the phone to call you when I received the news that you
were being rushed to the hospital by ambulance. I wish I had forced the time
out the day before when you were apparently doing pretty well. I had a bad feeling
about this hospital visit. Your fight
had seemed greatly diminished if not altogether gone when I had last visited. I
was hoping I could find a way to help you get some of your spark back, but it
was not to be.
We received
the news that you were not going home, but were instead headed to hospice, a
couple of days before Christmas. My sister and I rushed up to see you that
weekend. We stayed w/ our Dad and Stepmom. We arrived at their place, and Dad
drove us up to see you. Papa was gone for the day as it was past dark, but you
roused yourself when we came in. You smiled. You tried to have a bit of
conversation, but it was hard for you to form the words and make yourself heard
over the oxygen. We still had a bit of a chat here and there, and you liked
hearing us talk to each other and Dad. After a bit, your pain became
unbearable, so you were given some meds, and we left as you were finally
comfortable and had fallen asleep. Visiting hours were also nearly over.
The next
day, my sister was too sick to come to the hospice to see you as she had been
stricken w/ a stomach bug during the night. Dad and I went to see you. Papa was
there. He had me sit next to you. You were in and out of consciousness as you had recently been given pain meds. We all chatted, and whenever you came around we
would talk to you. The aide brought your lunch in, and wheeled it right up to
you. Papa informed her that you couldn’t feed yourself, and you won’t eat for
him. She seemed a bit dismayed, so I said I would see if you would eat for me.
You are on a soft diet, and for some reason, a heart-friendly diet. It seemed
to me that once one is in hospice only being given palliative measures that a
low-fat diet was probably not necessary, but such are the vagaries of
institutions. You seemed to like the stuffing and the soup. You only took one
bite of the potatoes, and I did not even try to give you the green glop. Dad
and Papa agreed that it looked most unappetizing. You had 10-15 bites of food,
and a few sips of milk along w/ some water. I wiped your mouth for you, and
gave you a kiss on the forehead. I told you that I loved you. You patted my
hand and said, “Thank you. That was sweet.” You seemed to be sleeping when Dad
and I had to leave. I leaned over and gave you one last kiss and said good-bye
and I love you for the last time. You breathed, “Love you,” and I walked out
the door.
Knowing you
are saying good-bye to someone for the last time is a shocking thing. I am
still processing it. I am so glad I was able to do it, but I can’t really make
my heart understand that the next time I go up to MI, I won’t see you. As much
as life goes on, you and Papa, and your house, have been my constant source of
stability and love. It is time, though. After seeing you in hospice, despite
the fact that you are being well-cared for, I knew. You are still alive, but
you aren’t living. You are dying. It is time to say good-bye and let you go. Uncle
Mel and all your other loved ones are waiting for you. Your beloved mother,
whose loss you felt keenly most of your life, is also there. I will miss you
terribly, but it is time for you to stop hurting. Every day I dread getting the
phone call that I know is coming, but I know it needs to come because you
should be free. You can be the woman I saw in my dream last night, although I think
you’ll have your own hair. I love you so much, and I’ll sing for you whenever
you give me a sign.
