Love You Forever

I remember when my grandmother left her home, unknowingly for the last time, and headed to the hospital. During one of my visits there, I met a new mother carrying a car seat. I congratulated her on her new baby. The mother was quick to pull down the blanket to proudly show me her sweet newborn. It was actually an incredibly beautiful baby. I’m not one to say all babies are beautiful because some are downright homely. But this one was perfection. It wasn’t a coincidence to witness this “circle of life” moment in slow motion. Life and death. Beginning and ending.

Every couple days, Grammie was moved to a higher and then higher floor of the hospital which meant the end was closer and closer. Lastly came the palliative care wing. The hours were getting shorter and even more precious.

I’m sharing this specific picture from the classic children’s book, Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch, because it portrayed those last hours. Even though I sang the book over and over to my little children, I never liked to think about the sad scenario it described. Yet, here I was, living out the last page, with my dear Grammie. I slept with her in the hospital bed, until two before she passed away. If ever there was a fulfillment of the last page of that book, this was it.

This dying bullshit sucks. 

We went through the days of preparing the funeral and eulogies. And then we were as ready as we could be, to step through the door of my grandparents’ residence, with nobody home. 

I found it very hard to begin going through someone else’s place and their dearest possessions. To make tearful and seemingly heartless decisions about what was to be kept, given away or trashed.

With the death of each family member, I seem to have become more and more of a hoarder. It’s probably not sensible to collect the things that they loved. I took many things I didn’t need. I guess the first step is being aware that I have a sentimentalism problem. The photo albums of everyone who has passed away in my family have somehow ended up in my house. 

Then came the deadline for going through Grammie’s things. At the last minute, my great aunt pointed at a picture frame hanging in Grammie’s kitchen. My youngest daughter, my sister‘s oldest daughter, and me when I was a little girl, all cooking. It summed up a lot of memories in one picture frame. Tearing up, I added it to the pile of things I didn’t need, but couldn’t say no. 

The last piece of paper I grabbed was a letter written by one of my grandmothers to my other grandmother in 1970 when I was only a few weeks old. It was the first time I saw it. Do I need it? No. Am I a sentimental addict? Maybe.

I remember the good old days. The ways of the past half century. I personally wouldn’t want to go back in time. I’m too weak to want to relive my life. Even with the wisdom that I know now. But I can’t help to remember the older generations, and what life was like, visiting the old homes and the old folks. The genuine welcome when I walked in the door. As if I was a superstar. The simplicity of being offered a delicious homemade cookie. And the warm cinnamon buns and fresh bread with molasses. The thought never crossed my mind that someday, a visit would be the last one.

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Barely two weeks after her death, we finished the task of emptying the apartment, and I walked out the door of my grandmother’s place for the very last time. 

Then I stopped at the old graveyard again. Taking a garbage bag, I disposed of the dead flowers from the funeral that had been arranged around the headstone.

I have nothing to say about life and death because there is nothing about the topic that I truthfully understand. This whole earth experience is something else. I’ve been taught many different perspectives about death from many people who know “for sure”, and in my past, I thought I did understand. But I really don’t. It gets more confusing, the older I get. It’s kind of fucked. 

Grammie’s story has ended, but she has undoubtedly influenced the future. Our lives have been touched by both her nature and her nurture.

I wrote all the above with voice-to-text, on my drive from the graveyard to town, to pick up comfort pizza. It took a few minutes to dry my tears before I went in. While waiting, it wasn’t a coincidence that I met a brand new mother and father with their three day old infant. Most assuredly, a sign that life goes on. Contrary to all the doomsayers, there is a future. And there is a hope.

“I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, My baby you'll be.”