I want to talk about my Gram and grief in the time of Covid. So many of us around the world are dealing with similar losses. I read story after story about families caught in the wildfire of the virus. No-one really thinks it can happen in their family until it does.
I got a text from my mom that said, “everyone in grandma’s house has a cold.” Way down deep in my belly, I felt like something was wrong. Fast forward a week, and I was flying in the midst of the pandemic to upstate NY from Florida so I could stand outside her bedroom window and tell her that I loved her. It happened so fast that I can still hardly believe it’s true.
When I saw her, she looked uncomfortable and could hardly move her head, so I walked around to another window and jumped up and down waving, and smiling. I could barely hear her say, “I love you darlin.” Four days later, I came back by, and she was peacefully resting, wrapped in a soft velvety-purple blanket. I was glad to see her at peace, having been cared for by hospice… the next day between, flights I got the call that she was gone. My dear sweet 91-year-old grandma, gone.
Let’s back up to a week before. I paced back and forth for days trying to brainstorm solutions to help grandma get better. I pleaded with my mom to take her to the hospital only to find out that grandma made her daughters promise that they wouldn’t take her, that she wanted to be home in her own bed. It took me days to come to terms with the fact that she was in her sound mind, and it was ultimately her choice. In hindsight, I’m glad she stayed home.
There are some days that I wake up crying. You’d think that I’d be able to understand that a 91-year-old woman lived a good long life, but I still feel robbed. I spent months and months staying away from her to protect her, only for her to fall ill in the end anyway. I wanted more time with her. Sometimes I get angry at myself for not going in to hug her when I had the chance.
Off the Cuff with A-Game 