I watched her dying.
Please. Open your eyes. I wanted her to see me one last time.
Afraid at first to touch her, I stood crying. Wondering. Watching.
"She can hear you," the nurse said. "She just can't interact. Her body is shutting down."
It wasn't just the pneumonia, it was everything. Pneumonia just happened to be the final blow.
I touched Grammy's frail small shoulder under the blue cotton blanket. Watched her closed eyes as she struggled to breathe. Bruises from her last fall covered the top of her almost hairless head and had spread down her cheeks.
"Grammy, it's me...Joy. I love you."
I'd been able to say goodbye to my other grandparent's when they each had died. Now, it was Grammy's turn. But I was too late. Too late for her eyes for see me. Too late to hear one final "I love you, honey." It happened too fast.
I know I'm not alone. It just happens this way sometimes.
I'm thankful for the other times recently that I saw her. I guess I knew each goodbye could be the last. So I always gave her that extra long hug and second kiss. I think she knew it could be the last goodbye, too. She would give me that long special look that meant something like, "If I should pass before we meet again, know that I love you, honey."
I do. I know. And I love you, too, dear Grammy. So much.
Thank you for all the years. You were special, because you always lived near enough to be a part of my life.
Goodbye for now. I will miss you.
|Grammy always loved small dogs.|
|Grammy's wedding day, when she married my |
|Grammy in love with my grandpa.|
|Grammy holding my mom.|
|My cute Grammy around 20|
|Grammy with Grandpa and my|
mother and uncle.
|Grammy with her first husband, Frank, whom she|
survived when he passed away 25 years ago.
|Grammy was 97 years old this March.|
Joy--Fearless Farm Girl,
"Farm girl: it's a verb, because it's what you do."