My grandmother died, night before last.
The funeral is tonight (Thursday).
We’re running around, getting ready.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, all this running around. I know that when I keep busy I can just lose myself in being busy. And then, it comes back, this realization, almost a mini-flashback to the other night, sitting in the room with my dad and older brother and my grandmother’s body.
I find myself simultanously wishing for more ritual in my life, more of a prescribed way of doing this, and simultanously wishing that I wasn’t having to rush around, preparing for the rituals that we do have.
Her death was not sudden or unexpected. She was not comfortable, independent, or even aware, for a very long time. I believe that she is in a better place.
And yet, I miss her terribly. And I am so sad. As long as she was alive I could hope that the dementia would clear, that the Parkinson’s would recede, that she would suddenly get better. Rationally I new this wasn’t going to happen. But strictly speaking, it wouldn’t be impossible.
Well, now she is gone. There is no more holding on to delusions that we’ll play one more game of poker, that she’ll cackle her crazy laugh after she’s said something provacative, that she’ll cook a mountain of mashed potatoes when only like two people are eating.
And so I suppose that it is not only a mercy for her but also a mercy for me, that now I can’t live in denial about it anymore. It’s not fun, but it is a mercy.