My grandmother is dying.
As she lays unresponsive in an Iowa hospital, I’m keenly aware of the impending loss. I have many memories of this woman who took the time to pay attention to a child used to being on her own. In an only child’s world of adults, my grandmother let me know it was okay to be a kid. My grandfather was an Iowa crop farmer, and visiting the farm was the first time in my life I remember being allowed to get dirty. For some reason, my grandmother expected it; she called it “playing.” I spent summers at the farm watching my grandmother do the things that made up her world — bird watching in her flower gardens, quilting with her church ladies, and embroidering pillow cases and tea towels for gifts. My grandmother’s bathroom had fake flowers and crocheted toilet paper roll covers. She woke up at the crack of dawn and went to bed early, wore polyester pants that when swish-swish-swish when she walked, and sensible shoes. I learned to eat fried green tomatoes and mayonnaise-and-sugar sandwiches (yes, this is a thing). I learned about the mystery of dentures, the consistency of getting your hair done, even what a breadbox and an ice box really were. I learned that in Iowa you brought food to pass to commemorate any life event, what family gatherings really look like, and just how flat Iowa really is and how high corn really grows in that perfect grid of a state. Once they were retired, my grandparents would spend summers driving their camper all over the contiguous United States, always heading home by way of the Grand Canyon, because that was one of my grandmother’s favorite places. One summer they even took me, and I learned about the Black Hills of South Dakota, Mount Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, Wall Drugs, and prairie dogs.
And I learned about feeling loved, and wanted, and special.
When she lost her husband almost two decades ago, she seemed to falter a little. To fill the gap, she spent more time with her daughter Bonnie, and sometimes they traveled together. I’m happy to say that my Aunt brought her out to Pennsylvania to visit our very young family, and about ten years after that, we drove out to Iowa and brought the not-so-young family to her. Some things never change: she moved slower, but with the same determination. There were bird feeders, and flower gardens, and quilts. Although I never could find any patience for embroidery and no love whatsoever for crochet, I think she’d be tickled to know I’ve been knitting, and that my sister has been quilting.
In the last ten years of her life, dementia has stripped away her dignity, one ruthless day at a time. I feel guilt because I haven’t been better at visiting. I’m crap at writing letters, and inconsistent at best at calling. And now there is no way to correct that. But as she slips away, unresponsive in a sterile hospital bed, I know that somewhere in her mind she is getting ready to go traveling again, restless to get on her way to see my grandfather and her Maker, and going home by way of the Grand Canyon. I miss her so much already.
As it should be.
Robin, I got a little teary earlier today reading this, and am so very sorry you are losing your beloved grandmother. For some reason, I consistently more often get teary about my grandmother Mary Janzen the First than my father I lost last year–probably the fact I’ve had more time to process. She was the only grandparent I got to know beyond holiday visits, as after she was widowed she moved to live near my family when I was about 16 and we became close buddies then. Fast-forward to this year when I found several analog recordings I wanted to digitize for posterity, one of which is the recording of MJI’s 1995 memorial service. I had that done and picked them up today, then listened to the goodbye for Mary the First this eve–hadn’t done so since the actual event. Fortunately, Angel Eyes did not mind my reaching for the tissues.
Mary, it’s a funny thing, processing loss. Revisiting memories can be so bittersweet. I keep updating the post as I remember more things that I don’t want to forget; I want to crowd them all in before she draws her last breath and I lose her forever. How I envy your later years with your grandmother; once we moved from Nebraska, time with mine became rare in person, relegated to phone calls on holidays and letters in birthday cards. I was her first grandchild, and she was the only grandmother I ever knew. As her daughter adopted me at age 3 when she married my father, I was not her granddaughter by blood, but that never seemed to make one whit of difference to her. I didn’t have to keep my clothes clean and my hair tidy. She didn’t require me to be seen and not heard. She simply accepted me for who I was. Unconditional love is a heady gift. I treasure it to this day.
Thank you for sharing your relationship with Mary Janzen the First. I love that you were so close to your namesake; what a special bond. And yes, the tissues are never far away.
Now I hang my head in blog dog shame for missing these sad yet warm memories of your grandmother. Especially for all your (timely) support when I lost my mom.
I just love your word paintings of the memories of bathrooms with “fake flowers and crocheted toilet paper roll covers” and I can hear the sounds of those polyester pants. I can see you running through the giant labyrinth of Wall Drug fascinated by that world of tchotchkes.
In all of your words I read love,, and nothing is more heavy than missing that, even as you cherish the what was, the loss of what will not be again is so damn heavy.
The next time I go to the Grand Canyon (and I have little excuse its only 3 hours from here) I will wave for your grandmother.
PS you have made it into my feed reader 😉 You will never shake me off now.