Tag: Grief

Now That You’ve Touched Eternity

February 26, 2019 / / 0 Comments

I think of you when the clouds turn grey and swell; when the rain and my tears mix softening the sting of salt on my cheeks. I think of you when I break into a new bale of sweet smelling hay; and when the sun sets, revealing cotton-candy strokes of color that God uses when He paints the sky. When I find new life on the homestead, I think of you then too in the stillness and in awe of little miracles.  I feel you near when the steady hum of the bees surrounds me.  Sometimes I think everything I need to know about life is right outside my door. You and Grandaddy taught me that.

I wonder if things would different between us, now that you’ve touched eternity; if you’d watch the waves lap lazily along the shore, wishing you could still fuss at me. “Sit in the shade, Ash” falling on deaf ears while I bask in the serenity of a sun-filled sky.  My reddened body later lying in miserable, defiant regret.

I wonder if you’d be proud of me. If you’d see how motherhood is transforming me; a human metamorphosis.  Do caterpillars feel this kind of pain too, when they grow through change? I wonder if you share the stories of my childhood with angels; if you tell them about the mom I would pretend to be back then, and of the one that I’m becoming.  I can hear you saying “she has a lot on her plate” over coffee and crumb cake.

With forever in your back pocket, would you tell me to slow down? “The very hairs on your head are numbered, Ash.”  I hear you whisper “soften” in my mind when the busyness and chaos take over and my emotions rage. I wonder if you’d put your hand on mine and say “don’t be ugly” when I lose my patience entirely.  Would you tell me to keep my eyes on the seasons? “In the winter the earth rests, and so should you.” I know my time here is limited, there’s just so much to be done.

I wonder what you’d think of this life I’ve built around all you taught me.  If you know that I’m living it to honor you, and keep your memory alive.  I wonder if you’d tell me to keep working at it; if you know the dreams of my heart and if you can see the words I bleed onto paper.  I wonder if you’d read my writing the way you used to read the paper every morning, out loud and to anyone who would listen, if you were still here.

I wonder if you can hear my prayers and wish I would do more of that.  I hope you can still see me, and that I make you proud.

While My Heart Gently Weeps

February 8, 2018 / / 0 Comments

Prior to last month, the only time I’ve ever had to grapple with death was twenty-one long years ago.  Grandaddy was diagnosed with cancer and left my eleven-year-old-world in shambles two short weeks after when he passed.  I remember coming home from school and being hushed while he lay on the sofa in pajamas that stretched hard to cover his poor distended belly.

“Go play outside, Ash…Grandad needs to rest.”

I remember the walk Nanny took me on when she told me what was happening.  It was summertime, and forever etched in my mind remains how astoundingly thick the locusts were that year.  Their constant hum was so loud it made the air feel heavy; the humidity almost suffocating.  Still, she needed out of the house and I remember how I hop-scotched that entire walk trying to avoid stepping on the blue wings and red beady eyes that littered the sidewalk.  Her face was filled with sadness and I knew I needed to be strong for her.  And then he was just…gone.  There was no time to prepare or work through emotions that I had never felt to such an extent.

Fast forward what feels like a lifetime to Nanny’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis.  My Aunt Julie called to tell me. She was crying.  Again, caught off-guard, the emotions were back exactly as I remembered them.

Only, an Alzheimer’s death is not quick.  It’s called “The Long Goodbye” because each and every day the disease chips away at what was once a fully capable, beautiful mind.  Ultimately, few pass from the disease itself…instead from a weakened immune system, compromised by another, insignificant, common illness.  As was the case for my precious grandmother.

I can actually pinpoint the exact moment my heart broke into pieces one last time as this disease won the long-fought battle.  Four days before she passed I walked into Nanny’s room at the nursing home.  Hospice nurses were giving her a sponge bath.  She was so tiny, frail beyond any words I can use to describe it.  Her eyes were fixed half open, glossy and lifeless, cast on the ceiling above her bed.  Her chest heaved irregularly as she struggled for breath.  My mom was frantically sorting through clothes hangers in her closet, searching for a night-gown and caught my eyes, as I tried to maintain composure.  “It’s bad” she whispered, eyes brimmed with tears.  We stepped into the hallway where I broke into her and sobbed like I was a child again.

The rest of that day was spent bedside with her, holding the hand that guided me through life.  I studied the soft age spots that she so often called “ugly” and couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful or precious to me.  As the night came to a close, I had to come home.  I will forever carry a guilt in my heart for leaving her that night.

The days leading to this she had been sleeping constantly, not eating or drinking.  Hospitalization for labored breathing and suspected pneumonia followed and despite wanting nothing more than for her to get better, as there is no cure for this, the doctors explained that continuing to administer fluids was just prolonging her suffering.  She was sent back to Heritage Green with orders to keep her comfortable.

Somewhere along the way I had developed extreme misconceptions about death.  I had thought the process of dying would be peaceful and serene.  When my mom called to tell me she had passed the following Sunday, in the same breath choking back cries, I remember saying I was so thankful it was over for her.  Her final days were anything but peaceful  and those memories will haunt me for the rest of my life.  I pray my own children never have to experience it.

In the weeks that have followed, while trying to navigate the grief that washes over me in all-consuming waves, I’ve tried to cling to the promise that I will see her again one day.  And I know she’s still here with me…the signs are here and very, very real.

Jesus teaches us to love others as we love ourselves and that love is the reason we grieve when we lose someone close to us.  As a young Christian I thought of love as a feeling, an emotion.  It was fleeting at best but oh so deceptively strong.  As I’ve grown, I’ve learned that real love is actually long-suffering; it is dying to self and practicing patience, and kindness, while serving and forgiving others regardless of whether they deserve it or not.  And that is exactly how Nanny loved me… She cherished me, even when I least deserved it, all the days of my life.  I have the biggest shoes to fill.

 

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