The Center of my Universe

I was on the shores of a beautiful lake at a Girl Scout camp waiting to take an eager group of Brownies canoeing when I glanced at my phone.  When I saw I had a missed call and voicemail from my Uncle Steve, I knew.  I stepped away from the girls and made the call.  My Grandma Peggy had died.

I confess that I had prayed for that very moment for years.  My Grandma suffered from Alzheimer's
disease and had lingered in an extended care facility for the past six years.  For a while, there seemed to still be a spark of her left; she could carry on a semblance of a conversation.  She'd get lost in the details like what year it was, and who I was.  But she would always smile at me and chitchat pleasantly.  She especially loved it when I would bring The (then kindergarten aged) Boy and The (baby) Girl.  It is a well-known fact that my Grandma ADORED children.  Even when the fog had rolled into her mind and blotted out almost everything, she would always interact with them.

As time went on, she became less coherent, more vacant.  She would make eye contact when I spoke to her, but she wouldn't say much.  She still enjoyed mealtimes, but that was about all that remained of her personality.  Even then, I could get a smile (and sometimes a little giggle out of her) if I would lean over and give her 100 Kisses.  When I was a little girl, my mom used to do that.  She's lean over me and place her lips against my cheek and give me 100 Kisses - puckering her lips and making the kissy sound rapidly.  When The Boy was little, he would allow me to violate his No Kisses Please policy to receive 100 Kisses.  Given her child-like state, I decided to try it with Grandma.  It worked!  When it would come time to say goodbye at the end of a visit, each time I would lean over and give her 100 Kisses.  She'd giggle in (what I hope was) delight and her eyes would flash with love.  In that moment, I knew that she was still My Grandma.

As the years dragged on, her condition deteriorated.  Her mobility declined and she lost the ability to feed herself.   The time between my visits grew longer and longer.  I thought about her often, but seeing her there, in that state was wrenching.  It got to the point where I cried during the entirety of my visits with her.  As she began to lose her power to speak, she was reduced to moaning.  I recall very clearly sitting next to her bed after a visit.  I had given her 100 Kisses, but didn't get much of a response.  She turned to me and moaned, "Take... me... home..."  I put my arms around her neck, whispered, I wish I could and left as quickly as I could.  I made it past the nurses station before the sobs started.  It would be over a year before I could go back to visit.

I struggled with that decision.  I loved my Grandma fiercely.  She was an essential person in my life.  But that person sitting first in the chair, staring blankly into space and later laying in a bed unable to speak beyond a moan was not my Grandma.  My Grandma was solid and stocky with a thick armed hug and a warm smile.  She was a woman who loved children, black coffee and Chinese food, who loved to "go off" on adventures.  My  Grandma watched soap operas and daytime talk shows.  She made pound cakes and pizza puff and the best sausage balls in the whole world.  That was the Grandma I wanted to remember.

That Grandma was the Center of my Universe.  As long as I can  remember, she was a central person in my world.  When my daddy, her son, died much too soon, she stepped in to help care for me.  I spent many summer days at her house, playing with my cousins and watching "the Stories" on TV. When my mom had to rail against the injustice of being left a widow at 25, my grandma picked up  the slack.  She was always placid, always loving - no matter what was going on.  My whole life, she never failed to show up for me.  From the silly concerts and awards ceremonies of childhood to the more serious milestones of adulthood, she was there.  The image of her holding my week-old Boy is one burned into my memory.  Four years later, she came to visit The new baby Girl too, but already she was a changed person.  The harmless forgetfulness we jokingly blamed on cooking with aluminum had grown to something dark, menacing and ugly.  That darkness took her from me long before yesterday, and so in many ways, the final step was more relief than anything else.  Finally, her body could again be reunited with her mind.

When I got the news, I cried a bit. And then I immediately snapped into caretaking mode.  I called my Mom (because no matter how old you are, you never stop wanting your Mommy).  I called the ex to make sure the logistics for The Boy and The Girl were cared for.  I threw myself into the care of those Brownies I was camping with.  It wasn't until later, when everyone else was handled that I  had to take care of me.  At that moment, I had an overwhelming urge to reach out to the last person who had custody of my heart.  Despite the fact that we have not spoken in months now, and we will most likely never speak again, at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to turn to him to take care of me.

But that won't do.

This journey I am on has taught me that I can't escape the pain of this loss by slipping into the old habits of distracting myself from uncomfortable feelings.  Nor can I look to anyone else to shoulder this burden for me. It HAS to be me.  I will honor my Grandma by being the strong woman she helped to teach me to be.  I've often said that my Grandma was the Center of my Universe; she was the person who loved me best in the whole world.  I've learned enough to know that that, too, has to be me.  And so it shall be.

Goodbye Grandma.  I love you very very much.  Rest in Peace.