I spent virtually the whole day yesterday at my Gramma's house. She passed away. I watched her pass. The whole scene was heartbreaking, my Gramma lying there pale in bed, her eyes glassy and half open. She had a distant look on her face. When I looked at her, I didn't see my Gramma. I saw something empty, something that glowed vibrantly for years until it one day ceased to glow. It wasn't my Gramma I was looking at anymore. I looked death in the face, and it looked back at me. She was gone. It was over.
She remained there in that bed until we were ready to let her leave. I walked past her many times. On more than one occasion I half expected her to open her eyes, and smile at the company she was in. I could've sworn I saw her breathing. But in a few hours she would leave forever.
I visited her house today, visited everything it once was. The smell of death was trapped inside, to be held hostage until spring came and the windows would be flung open once again. Life goes on, and suprisingly I don't feel lost in this. I don't feel bitter or heartbroken. Life will go on, it always does.
When I was a little girl, my Pops died. August 17th, 1994. We had a sausage in our freezer for the longest time, bearing the date of his death. It was like a momento, a souvenir. They were my favorite Grandparents, if I should even be saying something like that. But they were more than my Grandparents, my babysitters, my mother's parents. They were my friends, my playmates, the people who insisted on feeding me every few hours. They played games with me during the day, helped me put away my Legos, talked my parents into letting me stay out later so I could play tag in the dark. It's sad to think I no longer have a grandparent, I no longer have that key to the past. I don't have my Pops to tell me stories about Vietnam, or to fall asleep in the rocking chair, watching television. I don't have my Gramma to bake me cookies or play Yahtzee with me, or talk me into spending my evening watching Matlock and other out-of-date television programs with her.
Comparing my feelings to past experiences, both my other Grandparents who died in hospital beds, my Uncle who was killed by a drunk driver, I feel different. At peace. As morbid as it may sound, being there while my Gramma passed was... a form of closure. I was very active in my Gramma's battle with cancer, spent a lot of time with her at home, visited the hospital. A few times I was creeped out by the whole situation, but I stuck with it and came back the next weekend. I brought her flowers and hugged her. Just being there, I'm sure, made her feel better. When the others that were close to me had passed I was heartbroken, especially my Pops. I just didn't understand.
Maybe I understand now, because I'm not as hurt as I'm feeling I should be. I miss my Gramma tremendously, but I just don't feel it. I realize she's at peace, and I believe that's where she needs to be. In some ways, I don't really feel she's gone. I feel like she's away, and she'll come back soon.
It'll hit me later, I know it will.