My Grandma Jane is dying. In a sense, she’s been dying for years, suffering from a number of serious conditions including a degenerative nerve disease that’s been slowly killing every nerve cell in her body and brain. After suffering a massive stroke late last fall, her condition went from deteriorating to worse and we didn’t expect her to make it another week. But, “Calamity Jane” (as she likes to be called) rallied and has been in hospice care for more than six months now. Two days ago, the family got word that her body is finally giving up and she is “transitioning” into the next life. Now, I’m waiting for the call from my mom saying that Grandma Jane’s struggles on this earth are over.
The whole thing makes me sad. I’m sad for my mom who will be saying her final goodbyes to her mom, though she says that Grandma Jane really hasn’t been here for some time now. I’m sad for my cousins and my aunt and uncle who live in the same town with her and were much closer to her than I ever was. Sad for the choices that my Grandma Jane made in her life, choices that made things for her and those around her much harder than they could have been. She lived a life that was marred by depression and addiction, turning to prescriptions and alcohol for relief from her inner pains. I wish that things had been different for her, that her life had been a happier one, but it wasn’t.
But I do have fond memories of her when I was little and lived much closer to her. Memories of making snickerdoodles in her kitchen, gobbling up the warm cinnamon-sugar treats and giggling over their funny names. Memories of how she cared for me after I had surgery when I was seven and needed to stay at her house while my mom went to work. Memories of her at her baby grand piano playing WWII era music and her favorite classical pieces. Memories of her laughing with my husband on a trip to see her some years ago when she was still able to get around. Memories of her holding my baby girl on her lap at my cousin’s wedding.
But in recent years, I haven’t been in touch with her very much. She is in Oregon and I’ve been at least half-way across the country from her since I was eight years old, so I can’t say that we have ever been close. I don’t know on what terms she will go to meet her God. And I find myself fighting off pangs of guilt for not doing enough to find out. Yes, she is responsible for her own choices in this life, but couldn’t I – shouldn’t I have done more to reach out to her and love on her as Christ would? In these last months, she’s been unable to speak or communicate much, so I’ve reasoned that phone calls and notes would have no effect. But I can’t help but think that I wasted a lot of time, missed opportunities because I simply wasn’t available. Oh, God, forgive me!
And so I pray that even in these last hours when she is unconscious and beyond our reach that Jesus will somehow break through into her mind and give her the comfort that only He can. And I pray that He will help me to be a comfort to my family in the days to come. Mostly I pray that I will be able to forgive myself for the things unsaid and the love that was left undone.
Oh, Grandma Jane….I pray that you will indeed finally rest in peace. Lord, have mercy on us all.
