A lot of people have never met their grandparents, or only see them on holidays and special occasions. Grandma lived with us, so I saw her about three or four times a day for nearly half of my life. Dealing with the lack of her presence, the void where she used to exist, is the hardest thing for me right now.
I miss seeing her ball of white hair over her recliner when I walk in to give her her meds, or tell her the ball game is on or that dinner's ready. I miss her calling me, "dearheart" and painting her nails and driving her up Mud Mountain Dam Road. I miss her soft skin, her refusal to believe that Chester was anything but good, and the way she never admited she was less than five feet tall. I miss seeing her fanatisism for sports (especially Detroit), showing her my new clothes, singing "Baby It's Cold Outside" with me in my car, and that little giggle she'd get just before sharing something she knew she shouldn't. I miss playing solitaire on the floor of her old place, eating all the M&Ms in sight, and watching Mrs. Doubtfire together. I miss the train rides to Santa Barbara, her paying me to eat something I didn't like, and playing Gin Rummey til one in the morning.
I don't like having to pick out an outfit for her to wear in the coffin. I don't like bagging up her old clothes and organizing the hangers by color. As much as I like having her jewelry, I'd much rather see it on her.
I know that - cliched as it may be - death is a part of life. I know also that 86 years is a long time to live. I can remember having realizations in the past that she was pretty old and that death was a possibility. But that doesn't make it any easier. She was always healthy, and she'd been in the hospital before, so I wasn't too worried when they brought her to the hospital last Monday, the 19th. Twenty-six hours later, she was gone. It all happened so fast.
I keep remembering small, odd little moments of her. One was a few years ago, when she gave Josh Schipper a "lucky penny" at WaMu. I think she was also trying to set us up, because she kept telling him all these great things about me. Speaking of that, there was another similar time at the movie theater, when she started telling the owner a bunch of nice things about me, too. And when I told her how I had coffee with a friend I met at Green River who was home briefly from WSU, she giggled and said, "So, you had a date!" even though it wasn't. And when I got all dressed up for the Mardi Gras dance, decked out in Gracie's black wig, dark make-up, and Grandma's green fishnets and big gold belt, she called me a "Femme Fatale." Little stuff like that keeps jumping into my brain at the most random - or maybe not so random - times.
I wish she could see me go to college. Well, I guess she did at Green River, but I never even showed her my diploma. She always wanted to go to college. And I never showed her my Norway pictures. But I guess those "I wishes" and "I nevers" don't really matter now, do they?
I never told anyone this, except for Sheila recently, but after she had a mini-stroke (called a TIA) on October 15, 2004, I used to check on her every night to make sure she was still breathing. I had found her after the stroke, so I felt like she was my responsibility, in a way.
I guess I'm doing better than I was. I didn't cry at the funeral, or when people give me hugs or I read sympathy cards. But tears aren't the only form of grief. I think writing is a way for me to grieve, or at the very least, vent. So even if no one reads this, it's still probably helped me. And if you have read this, thanks.
Andrea
