Life and Death
It’s been ages since my last blog post. So much has happened since summer:
- I finished my novel and it is officially on submission. Writing is truly a hurry-up-and-wait sort of thing. The few rejections I’ve gotten have been so positive, it’s hard to feel bad about them–a “love it, but it’s too similar to something on our backlist” is not a bad thing. I hope that means that a sale is coming soon. Of course, “soon” in publishing terms could be quite long.
- In November I FINISHED my freakin’ BACHELOR’S DEGREE!!! I started eight years ago and after a whole lot of work, I now have a shiny diploma. I’m shopping around for the perfect frame for it. Any old frame simply will not do. It is amazing how much of my brain is now freed up to think of other things–mainly books. And organizing my house–it is the one thing I’ve neglected.
- In October I flew out to Illinois and visited my little sister for ten days. Seriously. So. Great. In fact, I got my first rejection from an editor while I was at the Art Institute of Chicago. Is it even possible to feel sad while immersed in Monet? I think not.
- October through December were full of “A Christmas Carol.” My entire family was in on the act again. I played the part of Mrs. Crachit and had an absolutely fabulous time. I’m looking forward to “Fiddler” in the spring.
- I’ve had trouble starting my second novel. With my degree and the play and a busy church calling, it was easy to find distractions. But, now I’m settling down. I’m going to do my own little NaNoWriMo for February. Starting my book was like pulling out a sliver. Painful, but a huge relief at the same time.
Now to get onto what I want to blog about. I’ve been thinking a lot about life and death. My grandmother is dying. It’s okay. She’s ninety.
I sat beside her last Tuesday. Her skin is translucent, wrinkled and thin, but she is absolutely beautiful. Her fingers are bony–almost skeletal, but when I look at them I see mine. I see how much I have inherited from her. Her forehead is shaped just like mine. I smooth her hair. The texture as if I’m running my fingers through my own. It’s as if I have a glimpse of my own future.
She is sleeping a deep, deep sleep. The hospice chaplain is there for his bi-weekly visit. He explains of the separation of her spirit from her body–how it happens a little at a time. “Practicing” he calls it. I believe him. It does seem as if she isn’t there at all. She is snoring quietly.
Her breath is labored, but after awhile she rouses and gradually her eyes open. I can’t tell if she is truly awake or not. Her stare is empty. Her brown eyes (the same color as mine) no longer see. She stares straight ahead, but when I speak, she turns her head to me.
“Grandma,” I say. “It’s Melinda.”
“What are you doing, silly girl?” she says. Her humor so like mine. I always understood my grandma. Her words make me want to laugh and cry inside at the same time. She’s had dementia for months now. Not recognizing anyone but Grandpa and Aunt Marlene. I want her to know me. I hope that she does. I want to cling to her and every childhood memory and yet, I so desperately want her to be free from her mortal hindrance. Her strength is spent. She can no longer walk. No longer be of use. That is the part of it that she hated the most. And yet, for the past year, she has been at peace. At peace with herself and at peace with the world.
There is something so satisfying about a life well-lived. Her body is worn out, but not a bit of it wasted. She worked hard–very hard–her entire life. She got great satisfaction from it. Six children. More grand children and great grandchildren than I’ve kept track of–number-wise at least.
Aunt Diane leans over Grandma from the opposite side of the bed. “How are you, Mother?” She uses the word “Mother” with such tenderness and reverence, I’m caught a little of guard. I think of all the years that she has lived just through the fields from her mother-in-law and how much she loves her. I remember when she spoke at Grandpa’s birthday party about what a blessing it was to live near them. I feel a desire that someone would say the same thing about me. I want to be better, do better, live better.
Grandma is in pain. “I hurt,” she says. We find the morphine and put a dropper full in her mouth. I ask her if she needs water and she barely nods. I put the straw to her lips and coax her to drink. It takes effort, but she does it. Aunt Diane smooths her hair over and over. “It’s going to be okay.” She comforts. “Everything is all right.” Aunt Diane seems to know just what do to and I wish I felt the same about me.
“Do you think I’ll get better?” Grandma asks her.
“Better than you’ve ever been.” Aunt Diane smiles. “All you pain and worries will be gone.”
“Oh, I hope. I hope. I hope, ” she whispers. I hope, too.
Grandpa sits in the rocking chair and watches her, red-eyed and little worried. I can see it, but he doesn’t despair. He is a pillar of strength. Not physically. Not at ninety two, but mentally. No, spiritually. He understands. He knows that when she dies, their separation will be a short one. I have no doubt that he will soon follow after her. And they will be together. Forever.
Grandma sleeps some more. This time her breathing is smooth and relaxed. The morphine has done it’s job and I am grateful. The oxygen machine hums from the other room. We sing a few hymns–the Chaplain leads out. The Spirit in the room is strong and powerful. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. The chaplain suggests that we say a prayer around her. We stand and hold hands in a circle around her bed. His words are of thanks for her life. They speak such comfort and I can’t hold back the tears. It feels so right. We come to earth and live and then we leave. It’s just the way of it. It is fitting and satisfying and yet sad.
I go to leave. Grandma wakes up, though I didn’t expect it. I lean over her.
“I love you, Grandma.” I say. I smooth her hair, I put my hand on her cheek.
“Oh, you sweet thing,” she says. I thank her. I tell her that I will always remember her beautiful flowers. I love snap dragons because of her. “You do?” she asks. I tell her that I’ll remember her dill pickles, her big garden. Fresh cucumbers and frozen corn. She smiles. I tell her that I remember our walks and especially our talks. I’ll miss those the most.
“You were the best grandma that anyone could ask for,” I say. She smiles again. I try not to cry and I kiss her cheek. I tell her good bye. It could be the last. I hate good bye. But I want her to go. I don’t want her to be in pain.
She hasn’t eaten since Tuesday. I’m going to go and sit by her again today. Watch and wait.
My little sister texted me yesterday. She is expecting her second and just found out that it was boy. It was such a joy to hear the news and share and wonder what this new little person will be like. The miracle of birth.
A new life beginning.
An old life ending.
Both so wonderful.
Connected.
Perfect.