It is with a heavy heart today that I am saddened to report that my Grandmother died this afternoon. She was 90 years old and had been diagnosed with lymphoma only one week prior to her death.
We had a love/hate relationship. One, that in hindsight, I'm not too proud of. It was wonderful up to about nine years ago with the onset of Alzheimer's disease. Growing up I was the golden child, so to speak, and when I became Satan's spawn (according to her) it just wasn't the same.
I want to try really hard to focus on the sweeter, gentler moments in time.
Like the smell of freshly baked molasses gingersnaps and the special little bowl of sugar that I got to roll the dough in. Mouthwatering chicken soup with homemade noodles that I helped knead the dough, roll it out and cut into strips to drop one by into the boiling pot of chicken stock. I loved to go downstairs to rearrange her pantry, making sure to display the favored jello flavor prominently on the shelf knowing that upon the next visit I would have it to enjoy. My best friends Tempie and Mitzi and I would spend countless hours on the back porch playing card games like spite and malice and go fish. Or the times that the avocado green leather footstool that spun around like a sit and spin could keep us completely occupied for the afternoon. We had the finest affairs in our small town. Every spring we would all dress up in our mother's best and have lady dress-up parties, complete with Grandma's finest dishes and crystal glassware. What a small leap of faith when having parties with giggling and clumsy six year olds were in the house. Sometimes we would go on to the local Dairy Queen for a peanut buster parfait and to show off our beautiful borrowed clothes. Later on, as I got older and after Grandpa Whitey died, she moved back to Virginia, MN and stayed there until '96. That's when the changes began. Very slowly, but we knew something was different. She came to live with my parents when her sisters began failing in their own health and grandma could not live on her own any longer. She continued to live with my dad and mom until 3 years ago, when the official diagnosis was made and then began to live out the rest of her life in a nursing home.
Which brings me full circle to the point of this entry. I let my hurt and indifference toward her dictate my actions. I visited less frequently when the rabid behavior and crazy accusations were hurled at me. I cowered in the corner. Crying. Wanting desperately to leave, but yet knew I needed to stay because ultimately I knew she did not mean it. But then it would be months until I had the courage to reenter Room 317. This time with Emma in tow who helped diffuse the tension on most visits.
**As a sidenote, the strangest part of today was that Emma kept asking about Grandma Jo. We were in the driveway doodling with our sidewalk chalk and she would hold up one hand pointing towards the sky and say "I made this for you Gramma Jo!" I have no doubt that the work of God was at hand on this day.**
I have struggled with feelings of extreme guilt, animosity and regret and it has been way too long since my last visit. Two months to be exact. I was the first one to get the call today from the hospice nurse telling me that her temp had spiked to 107 and her breathing was shallow and labored. It brought back a flurry of memories that all I could think about was the term Cheyne-Stokes and having visions of the patients who had died on my shifts, with the same labored breathing. I will never forget the sound.
Today, I made it two minutes too late. But nonetheless, I came anyway.
G'ma, I may not have always liked what you did or said, but know that never once did I stop loving you.
