Saying goodbye

I was 13 when I learned that my grandmother wasn’t actually my grandmother, well, not by blood anyway.

As far as earth shattering news goes this was pretty much a non-event. What it did do was go a long way towards explaining some of the people who would periodically show up at family gatherings. And that picture on my mother’s night stand of the red headed woman, who I’d never actually met, suddenly made a lot more sense.

My grandmother died last Thursday of complications from a perforated bowel. Her health had been flagging in recent years and while everyone knew she was generally unwell the news that there was now some sort of ephemeral life clock counting down to zero was like a punch to the gut.

I’ve been fairly blessed in my life not to have had to truly experience the pain that the death of a loved one can bring. My great-grandmother died when I was very young and about 8 years ago my grandfather passed away. And that’s about it. In the grand scheme of things, those are pretty small numbers.

My grandmother could be a complicated, even prickly woman. As I grew older I was exposed more often to the tensions that came from joining two fully developed families into one. The melding wasn’t always harmonious. For reasons, never satisfactorily explained to me, my mother and uncles had been at times cool to this new woman in their father’s life.

And while the hatchet has been slowly buried over the years, in no small part to shelter us grandchildren, there was no doubting that my grandmother never forgot being slighted. And as the grandkids grew up into adult types in our own right the veneer of civility could sometimes wear a little thin. Holidays and special occasions would be notable by her absence as she chose to spend that time with her ‘other family’. And when she took my grandfather with her there would sometimes be hurt feelings and unhappiness.

In retrospect I think we were unfair to her. Now married, with a daughter of my own, I know full well how difficult it can be to please everyone when it comes to making the rounds on holidays. Some days it’s just impossible to please everyone.

But I never felt, not for an instant, that she was anything other than a loving grandmother.

I have so many great memories of her. So many stories of our time together that are mine alone to tell now. Like how, at four, when we went to Florida I picked up a dirty paper bag and couldn’t be made to let it go. Or when, at University, she’d take me out to lunch and wrap up the bread on the table in a napkin (and whatever condiments that weren’t nailed down) and stuff them in her purse to give to me in the car. (I was clearly a starving student who needed the food.)

Whenever she visited it was my job to keep her entertained. That usually meant endless games of cribbage until dinner was ready. Whenever we counted up our points at the end of each hand she always seemed to find one or two that I’d missed. She always told me that the little old ladies she normally played with would have eaten me alive if I played like that with them.

Nana died about a week after her initial diagnosis. I managed to see her twice in that time. On her deathbed she taught me that even when the end is near we’re still the same beautifully flawed and wonderfully generous people we’ve always been. She was just as fierce and strong on that hospital bed as I have ever seen her. And I am eternally grateful I had the opportunity to say good bye and let her know just how much I loved her.

At the funeral the tears and laughter of those who loved her was as fitting a tribute as any words I could ever string together. The joy and sorrow managed to bring two families together in a way we’ve never managed before.

Nana loved, laughed, fought, cried and was loved in return. That’s a life well lived and a legacy I plan to carry with me.