- From "The Sandpiper"
Two weeks ago today, a very wonderful woman died. Her name was Maria and she was a mother, a grandmother and great-grandmother. She was my grandmother. I didn't exactly see her "breathe her last," but I did see her not take in another breath. I was with my mom (her daughter) and one of my sisters. She'd been breathing really slowly, like that was all her body could handle. Like breathing was the one last thing she could do. Every time she exhaled, I'd watch and wait for what seemed like forever to see her finally breathe in a quick, shallow breath. It was around 2am, and we weren't even really paying attention, but somehow the three of us all seemed to turn at the same time to watch her. And watch her. And watch her.
Finally, she stopped inhaling. Her breathing stopped, her heartbeat stopped. Everything. She just stopped living.
When I started making the rounds to my friends about telling them that Grandma had died, I thought about how they would react. Would they feel sympathetic? Of course they would. My friends care for me as I do for them, and of course they would feel bad for me. But did they know why they felt sad for me?
It occurred to me that many people don't give a second thought when an old person dies. I mean, they're old, and they won't live forever, right? So, it's not exactly a big shocker. But for me... wow. I wasn't shocked, and I'm still not shocked. She had too many things happening with her body, and these last few weeks were obviously just too much for her to handle. But the thing is that... she's just always been there. There was only really a six-year period of my life where she didn't live with my family. She helped raise me along with the rest of my family. She was always, always there.
I knew during these last few years that her health was failing her, that she was just getting worse and worse. I tried to mentally prepare myself for her death without getting all depressed over it. I knew it would happen. I'd get up every morning and go to her room to see if she was still breathing while she slept, or I'd find her already awake and she'd smile and say hello to me, ask me what time it was. I'm ashamed to admit that it scared the crap out of me every time I did this because I didn't want to be the one to find her dead one morning.
And of course, I did find her dead one morning, but at least I knew it was coming and I wasn't alone. But it still hurts like crazy that she's dead. Picking out a coffin felt so surreal. Talking about what would happen with her stuff brought out bitter-sweet memories. Watching her coffin go up in her special tomb next to the grandfather I never knew and listening to my brother sob was too much for me to handle.
Two weeks later, and I still have to remind myself that I don't have to get up and give her breakfast and her pills. I don't have to check on her to see if she's okay, I don't have to bring her something to drink... I don't have to do all those things I resented while she was alive. And now I wish I could have one day back just to sit with her, just to kiss her cheek, to listen to one of her crazy stories from back home. I can't have those things back. I don't ever have to painstakingly explain the time of year to her or answer the same question five times in a row. But I'd give almost anything to do that again.
She was such a part of me, my siblings and everyone who knew her the way she was. She was such a strong woman, so wise, so full of vitality. She certainly could complain about the pain she was in, and yet she still worked so hard. She was amazing and now she's gone. How am I ever supposed to deal with that?
My only consolation is that I know that those who believe in a risen Christ will never truly be affected by death. I know that even though death can take the physical form, can literally take the breath right out of you, it can never take your soul. Never. And I know that my grandmother is alive in Christ. I know she has no pain, no weird memory loss, and that maybe she's with my grandpa, the love of her life, right now.
Ever since my grandma's death, I've been looking at the people I love and thinking about how one day they'll die. I know for a fact now that those people won't live forever. And I may not even see them all die, but they will. This may sound extremely morbid, but at least I have the comfort of knowing that most of my loved ones are also believers. And for those who aren't, well... don't believe I won't try my hardest to convince them to be. Because as much as it hurt to lose my grandma, it would hurt even more to lose someone who isn't a believer.
The day before my grandma died, I came to see her at the hospital and called her name. It was clear her body was shutting down, but her eyes fluttered open very briefly, recognition dawned and she smiled wearily at me. Grandma... I can't wait to see your smile again.
... will colour all my dreams and light the dawn.
Two weeks ago today, a very wonderful woman died. Her name was Maria and she was a mother, a grandmother and great-grandmother. She was my grandmother. I didn't exactly see her "breathe her last," but I did see her not take in another breath. I was with my mom (her daughter) and one of my sisters. She'd been breathing really slowly, like that was all her body could handle. Like breathing was the one last thing she could do. Every time she exhaled, I'd watch and wait for what seemed like forever to see her finally breathe in a quick, shallow breath. It was around 2am, and we weren't even really paying attention, but somehow the three of us all seemed to turn at the same time to watch her. And watch her. And watch her.
Finally, she stopped inhaling. Her breathing stopped, her heartbeat stopped. Everything. She just stopped living.
When I started making the rounds to my friends about telling them that Grandma had died, I thought about how they would react. Would they feel sympathetic? Of course they would. My friends care for me as I do for them, and of course they would feel bad for me. But did they know why they felt sad for me?
It occurred to me that many people don't give a second thought when an old person dies. I mean, they're old, and they won't live forever, right? So, it's not exactly a big shocker. But for me... wow. I wasn't shocked, and I'm still not shocked. She had too many things happening with her body, and these last few weeks were obviously just too much for her to handle. But the thing is that... she's just always been there. There was only really a six-year period of my life where she didn't live with my family. She helped raise me along with the rest of my family. She was always, always there.
I knew during these last few years that her health was failing her, that she was just getting worse and worse. I tried to mentally prepare myself for her death without getting all depressed over it. I knew it would happen. I'd get up every morning and go to her room to see if she was still breathing while she slept, or I'd find her already awake and she'd smile and say hello to me, ask me what time it was. I'm ashamed to admit that it scared the crap out of me every time I did this because I didn't want to be the one to find her dead one morning.
And of course, I did find her dead one morning, but at least I knew it was coming and I wasn't alone. But it still hurts like crazy that she's dead. Picking out a coffin felt so surreal. Talking about what would happen with her stuff brought out bitter-sweet memories. Watching her coffin go up in her special tomb next to the grandfather I never knew and listening to my brother sob was too much for me to handle.
Two weeks later, and I still have to remind myself that I don't have to get up and give her breakfast and her pills. I don't have to check on her to see if she's okay, I don't have to bring her something to drink... I don't have to do all those things I resented while she was alive. And now I wish I could have one day back just to sit with her, just to kiss her cheek, to listen to one of her crazy stories from back home. I can't have those things back. I don't ever have to painstakingly explain the time of year to her or answer the same question five times in a row. But I'd give almost anything to do that again.
She was such a part of me, my siblings and everyone who knew her the way she was. She was such a strong woman, so wise, so full of vitality. She certainly could complain about the pain she was in, and yet she still worked so hard. She was amazing and now she's gone. How am I ever supposed to deal with that?
My only consolation is that I know that those who believe in a risen Christ will never truly be affected by death. I know that even though death can take the physical form, can literally take the breath right out of you, it can never take your soul. Never. And I know that my grandmother is alive in Christ. I know she has no pain, no weird memory loss, and that maybe she's with my grandpa, the love of her life, right now.
Ever since my grandma's death, I've been looking at the people I love and thinking about how one day they'll die. I know for a fact now that those people won't live forever. And I may not even see them all die, but they will. This may sound extremely morbid, but at least I have the comfort of knowing that most of my loved ones are also believers. And for those who aren't, well... don't believe I won't try my hardest to convince them to be. Because as much as it hurt to lose my grandma, it would hurt even more to lose someone who isn't a believer.
The day before my grandma died, I came to see her at the hospital and called her name. It was clear her body was shutting down, but her eyes fluttered open very briefly, recognition dawned and she smiled wearily at me. Grandma... I can't wait to see your smile again.
... will colour all my dreams and light the dawn.
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