Dear Grandma,
Hearing you had died was a punch to an already numbed body.
They said you were on hospice at the beginning of November 2013. It was not unexpected. You had achieved 96 years of age and, though living on your own until age 92, had seen decline in the preceding years. I had said my goodbyes to you in June, with the understanding that it would be my final farewell in person. And yes, I was on the other side of the equator from you when I learned you were soon to pass on.
My housemates and I had our first volunteer retreat in the middle of November, in a beautiful sanctuary at Olón. That Friday afternoon, the facilitator asked the fourteen of us to share where we were and what we carried into the retreat. I said that I was trying to process the death of my Grandpa in September and come to terms with your passing on, as soon as it may come. After that opening reflection, I remember looking out over the sea from the Cliffside chapel and weeping.
That was the last time I cried, despite my best efforts to let the tears flow freely.
When I came back from retreat and checked my email, I felt the relief of not having received any updates. But I called home through the miracle of Google Voice and my Dad said everyone had been up to see you that weekend. Lorraine was still there.
When I called Lorraine, she was seated at your bedside. She asked if I wanted to talk to you and I said yes. With Lorraine holding the phone up to your ear, I expressed my love for you and my farewell. I told you I was sorry I could not see you in person. And then I got choked up and couldn’t say anymore. Lorraine reclaimed the phone and told me that you had heard me; your eyelids fluttered while I was talking to you.
You passed on the next morning. I found out through Michele, who had answered the home phone when it rang. I could only accept the hugs of empathy from those around me as I succumbed to the numbness.
You were an awe-inspiring presence, even while I was a young girl.
Your legendary prowess in the kitchen, much-praised by your children, was evidenced in all the homemade fare I enjoyed over the years.
Your classic recipe for chicken noodle soup is still a balm when I am sick or cold.
I remember your beautiful loaves of homemade bread, perfectly sliced, with oats sprinkled on top.
Who could forget your pie crust? Indeed, fruit pies were the most coveted of your desserts, often suspiciously missing from your chest freezer after one of your kids came to visit.
And your recipe for Freezer Oatmeal Cookies was the best of all. I can taste your memory in them whenever I have one.
You were an amazing woman.
Until age 90 you were flipping double mattresses by yourself. And somehow your fitted sheets were miraculously folded into perfect squares.
You volunteered at the nursing home for years, wheeling around ladies and calling bingo for the “senior citizens,” most of whom were much younger than you.
Your home holds many of my fondest memories from my childhood.
We had family gatherings each Christmas that involved lots of fort building and sledding in the heavy winter precipitation of central Wisconsin.
I remember the smell of those plastic blocks and the feel of the tiny, wooden train from the toy chest.
We had fun playing parlor games: Triominoes when we were young and then Sheepshead when we were old enough to learn. (You still always shook your head at our excessive table talk and slow play)
Your favorite pastimes were watching sports and knitting. You crafted hundreds of mittens and slippers for us and to give away, whether it was baseball or football season.
Do you remember walks through the cemetery adjacent to your condo complex? And the walks around the assisted living building when you needed to use a walker?
There were drives to nostalgic places: The Woller family farm where you grew up, Mercer, your schoolhouse, Grandpa’s grave
You were a very smart lady. Maybe that’s why it was so painful when the dementia became more pronounced, confusion and forgetfulness setting in.
Of course there are regrets. Of course I wish I had sat down with you and recorded something of your history to preserve it in its most authentic form. But I can only take what I have, photos and memories, and allow that to be enough.
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Powerful tribute and recollection! Hope you've already passed it on to your kin!
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