Addison Road

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.