My grandmother will probably die today.
I've been saying that all day. I've been saying that since Friday. (She's worse off than my dog, who I was so worried about Thursday night.)
Mammaw lived in Assisted Living in Bloomington, Indiana for over a decade until last September. A high fever (103) and a UTI caused her to go almost septic and fall out of bed. She spent some time in a hospital and a rehab facility in Bloomington until I helped my mom decide it was time to move her to a nursing home in Louisville, Kentucky, so thatmom and I mom could go see her daily instead of monthly. I usually went to see her on Sundays to give my mom a day a home.
Though Mom still made me Facetime her.
Mammaw couldn't walk or get herself in and out of bed anymore by October of last year. And, her dementia was as bad as ever, and getting worse. She may have not known what year it was or remembered what state she'd moved to, but she knew who we were. She could laugh. She could be lifted out of bed and sit in the dining room to eat/ be fed.
Her eyes weren't good. She couldn't see a damn thing. But, she liked to laugh about old memories.
Then, the memories she mentioned were from further and further back. Her own mom, who died when she was just seven years old. Singing with her step-sisters at some restaurant or something, and getting paid a whole dollar. Her brother Wilbur, who lived to be 137 (not really, but why second guess her or call her out on that? He did make it past 100.)
This woman. To explain her would take pages and more energy than I have tonight. When my mom left her abusive husband (the man who helped create me) it was Mammaw (and Pappaw) who took us in and saw us through the transition.
Here's a poem I wrote her for Christmas when I was fifteen. It's all I have tonight.
I love you, Mammaw. Like my sister said, you were the glue that held us all together. Tonight, you can let go. You can be at peace. We have learned so much from you. We will take care of one another. You can rest easy. Please, rest easy. Your work on earth is done.
I've been saying that all day. I've been saying that since Friday. (She's worse off than my dog, who I was so worried about Thursday night.)
Mammaw lived in Assisted Living in Bloomington, Indiana for over a decade until last September. A high fever (103) and a UTI caused her to go almost septic and fall out of bed. She spent some time in a hospital and a rehab facility in Bloomington until I helped my mom decide it was time to move her to a nursing home in Louisville, Kentucky, so that
Though Mom still made me Facetime her.
Mammaw couldn't walk or get herself in and out of bed anymore by October of last year. And, her dementia was as bad as ever, and getting worse. She may have not known what year it was or remembered what state she'd moved to, but she knew who we were. She could laugh. She could be lifted out of bed and sit in the dining room to eat/ be fed.
Her eyes weren't good. She couldn't see a damn thing. But, she liked to laugh about old memories.
Then, the memories she mentioned were from further and further back. Her own mom, who died when she was just seven years old. Singing with her step-sisters at some restaurant or something, and getting paid a whole dollar. Her brother Wilbur, who lived to be 137 (not really, but why second guess her or call her out on that? He did make it past 100.)
This woman. To explain her would take pages and more energy than I have tonight. When my mom left her abusive husband (the man who helped create me) it was Mammaw (and Pappaw) who took us in and saw us through the transition.
Here's a poem I wrote her for Christmas when I was fifteen. It's all I have tonight.
Bonds of Love
A woman, wrinkles only beginning to tarnish her smooth ivory face
holds a tiny baby in her arms.
They rock in a blue rocking chair, the woman singing a song melody,
the baby happy and content with her clear soprano voice.
Their eyes meet, and each smile.
In that single moment, more than fifteen years ago,
love formed an unbreakable bond
between a grandmother and grandchild.
The same woman, wrinkles more evident now
chases after a little girl.
They play, the woman humming her melody,
the little one learning the song.
Fervently, they hug one another -
the woman gazing down at the miniature mirror image before her,
the girl oblivious to the curly brown hair and sparkling blue eyes they share.
But each stands somehow aware the bond has grown.
The woman's days are busied with baking and homemaking
and sending her child's child off to school.
Time spent together is noticeably less,
mere music replacing the once sweet words of their song.
Precious moments pass them by, unappreciated and taken for granted,
but threads of love weaving them together will not let them go.
A beaten path forks, and each goes a different way.
The not-so-little girl maturing, the aging woman wiser.
Distance makes reunions special, though all has changed.
Each sings out different words and notes.
But with remembrance of every heart-warming hug and tender smile,
the unbreakable bond of love, formed so long ago, stays strong.
And perfect harmony resounds, when we sing out our songs.
I love you, Mammaw. Like my sister said, you were the glue that held us all together. Tonight, you can let go. You can be at peace. We have learned so much from you. We will take care of one another. You can rest easy. Please, rest easy. Your work on earth is done.
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