An UN-Wordless Wednesday

 

I thought as a tribute to “processing” my thoughts, I would remain silent this week as I did much of last week.  But, as a writer, this is near impossible to process my feelings and thoughts without writing them. 

My dad’s family lost their matriarch last week. The funeral was this past Saturday. 

I thought my role in this death was to be one of the few that still reside in rural Nebraska where everyone grew up.  To be a resource for when people needed things like advice on where to go or if they needed a phone charger.  I had even thought part of my role was just to be supportive, because I lived closer to her and the situation.  Surely, I had been given more time to process because of my proximity.  I was able to visit often, I was “in the know.”

I wrote about Grandma’s Alzheimer’s earlier this year and had taken comfort that the woman I knew was gone. The person who remained looked like her and was never quite sure of who I was, but I thought I had grieved that already. 

But, I hadn’t.

It’s bittersweet when my dad’s family is here.  I didn’t get to grow up around many of them and enjoy their company so much.  I describe it to my aunts as “hanging out inside of a hug.”  I have always been so fascinated by the fact that we could be such a tight knit bunch, regardless of the distance and size of the group.  She had 10 kids, I have 18 first cousins on this side.

And Grandma had revealed to me that she was “ready, ready, ready!” as she put it in a high pitched, funny voice the last time I visited her.  I knew she would be leaving soon. The children had already began to have “quality of life discussions” with regard to treatment of a cancer that had recurred.

The next day I saw a rescue squad from her town.  Most of the people who use that squad lived in that nursing home.  I remember thinking, “Oh, this will be soon.”

The day after, in fact, I received the call that it was beginning to happen.  By the next night, she was gone.

I am glad she is with Grandpa, my uncles and my aunt.  (She died the same day as Heavy D, so I picture that he is there, too, as ridiculous as that sounds.)

We had a wake, we laughed, we cried, we ate potato salad and food that people had brought.  We received flowers. We wrote thank you’s, I helped people pronounce and spell German names and local streets. 

I think we all just tried to make the most of our visits and I appreciated that. 

And, as everyone was leaving to go back to their homes, or to continue on to her burial in Arkansas, I felt as though I was panicking. 

It was easier to be together.  Even if we do goofy things like sing karaoke, we are together.

Yesterday, I asked my daughter if she wanted to hang a picture from Grandma’s room in her room.  She said she did and went upstairs to find a spot.  When she came down she brought me this picture:

This was a picture my grandma had painted for me in her retirement and gave to me as a little girl.  It always reminded me of me as a kid, all of the time I spent exploring on our farm west of town.  At times, I would sit on the side of the hill in the fields just staring at the farm wondering about all of the other little girls and children who grew up there before me. 

Of all of the pictures my daughter could have decided to remove from the wall, this is the one she chose.  One that so symbolically meant so much to me. 

You can call it a coincidence.  But, I’ve already told you I don’t believe in them.

I call it a sign.  Grandma made it to the other side and she is fine.  She is only a thought away and she is free from the shackles of this life that took hold of her.

I love you, Grandma.  Good Bye.