At about five o’clock this evening, my grandma, Irene Lee, passed away. Her body had been failing for many years, and in the last year or so, her mind began to slip away too, ravaged by dementia. She had Parkinson’s disease, which left her vulnerable to pneumonia. About a week ago, the doctors who were caring for her switched from talking to my dad about treating her, and starting talking about “making her comfortable.” My dad and my aunt both flew out, and have stayed with her throughout.
I talked to my dad last week, and asked if I should come see her before she passed away. He said not to come. They’ve been telling family and friends not to come by, I think to protect her dignity. There was nothing left of her, her mind or spirit or personality, and they didn’t want people to see her as she’d become. On Monday, she slipped into coma, and didn’t wake up. Her two children were by her side, and she passed away peacefully.
I was thinking tonight that she was the last person in the family who knew how to be Norwegian, to speak the language and make the food, to observe the cultural rites. Starting with my dad, our family is just … American. She was the daughter of immigrants, born on the farm, and she and my grandfather were the generation that moved from subsistence farming, from families of 10 kids that could barely be kept in shoes and hot meals, to middle-class professionals. She and my grandpa were the first generation to put all of their kids through school, all the way through college. They were the generation that cashed in on the hope that caused their parents and grandparents to get on boats and leave Norway, to seek out better soil.
I don’t have any deep thoughts for you - maybe later, but probably not. There was such inevitability to it that mourning feels out of place. I’m sad, but the grief seems flee-floating, not really attached to anything. We said our good-byes last year, at her 90th birthday party. Her final words to me were to love my family. “Love them – you know that’s your most important job, don’t you? They are God’s blessing to you. Love them.”
I brush my daughter’s hair at night, and tell her stories. It’s a ritual now, so after her pajamas are on, she dances around her room, and says, “Daddy, tell me a brushing story, a true story.” So, tonight, I told her about my grandma, and how she had gotten very sick, and couldn’t do any of the things that she loved to do, like running and swimming and dancing. I told her that God had taken Grandma to be with him, and that I was happy, because I knew that she was happy now, and that God would give her a new body, and she would be able to do all of those things again. But I told her that I was also sad, because I wouldn’t see her again on this earth. She leaned against me, and put an arm around my neck, and patted my back. Children are, sometimes, simply perfect.
Rest in peace, Grandma. May God receive your soul, and restore your body, and repay to you every blessing that you lavished on us.
I’m sorry for your loss, Mike.
This is a beautiful tribute. To live full of years and share time with great-grandchildren is a blessing. You are living out her final words to you.
I am sorry for your loss Mike….and your father’s. What an amazing generation of parents. One of the last things my dad said to all of his kids is to love each other. I don’t think it is any coincidence that this becomes a dominant theme during our last days.
I am so sorry to hear of your grandmothers passing! I am so happy to hear that you have such wonderful family memories that will sustain you all the days of your life. Many blessings!
Irene was a beautiful woman, and I loved knowing her and being one of her grandkids too. She never forgot a birthday or anniversary, and even had a special helper at the end to send her cards out for her.
This morning as Sophia climbed in to my bed to snuggle, she said “Mommy, daddy is sad because his grandma went away.”
I said “That’s right, but do you know where she is now?”
“Yes, with Jesus, and she got a new body that works right. And she can run and run and run fast like me. That’s good”.
I love that even at this age we can teach our children the wonderful hope we have that this world isn’t all there is.
Oh, Michael, I’m so very sorry. Once again you humble me with your simple gratitude and appreciation of the beauty of your and your family’s life.
>>>So tonight, I told her about my grandma…
DARN YOU for making me cry, Mike!! Seriously, that was moving.
I’m sorry for your loss…
side note: let’s get together re: teaching
We move to Burbank this weekend…so we’ll be neighbors.
Thank you for sharing this, Mike.
And thanks for some perspective this morning.
What a beautiful tribute to your grandmother. I am so sorry for your loss. (((((HUGS)))))
The memorial service was today. Lots of stories and laughter. I think grandchildren always see their grandparents through the lens of their own childhood, and it’s not until we become adults that we start to understand them as complete people, with all of the complexity that entails.
Indeed.
What a wonderful thing to be able to say “Lots of stories and laughter” right after you say “The memorial service was today.”
So, as of last Wednesday, my dad is now a farmer. My Grandma owned several hundred acres of prime farmland in Minnesota, which will now belong to my dad. I think I might go to Target on my way out of town, and buy him some overalls.
That’s really kind of cool. Has he already bent down in the field and let the soil run through his fingers?