Grandma

I got the call late one night as thoughts of video games, quantum mechanics and the intricacies of the college-aged feminine mind were dancing through my head. A contented existence devoid of major preoccupations suddenly exploded into a myriad of questions, unknowns and uncertainties. My cousin and her boyfriend picked me up and we were off on an after-midnight outing, destination known, but dreaded.

We didn't know what to expect when we got there, but we needed to be there. I dozed restlessly as the miles passed, waking to cold bursts of air when the truck door would open long enough for Heath to jump out. After a few sprints up and down the highway shoulder, he would jump back in car with a little more adrenaline and drive the next stretch until sleep began to overtake him again.

My Grandad was in surprisingly optimistic spirits considering that his wife was lying in a comatose state just yards away. You could tell our arrival there was a relief however. He seemed tired, yet vigilant, a worn-out wolf guarding over his wounded mate. Grandma looked like death and I had to take another breath before fully stepping into the room. A lively, spunky, pie-making, laundry-doing lady with a heart of gold was transformed into this gray wraith sparsely covered by sheets that served only to accentuate her weakened state.

"Brain stem stroke" "wait and See" "We Don't Know" "We'll Know More..."

Words that meant nothing to me flashed in my head and bounced off the walls shattering in brilliant displays of frustration. And then we gathered around the bed. As we joined together as family to lift up our loved one before our Lord, a sense of peace and healing settled over the sterility of the room that smelled of Purgatory.

And through the calm and unspoken uncertainty, a toe moved.

The next few years were absolute gifts. Grandma never really recovered, but we ate Mexican food together. Grandad cooked for the woman who had prepared his meals for over 50 years, nursing her, helping her fight on, loving her.

She passed one night, moving into the next life with ease and grace. My aunt, who had been a stronghold for Grandma and Grandad in their battle, awoke to a voice at her ear, "I'm free Judy-babe." She got the call an hour later.

The funeral was a celebration. All those who attended remembered not the mourning, but the laughter and the tears, sadness mixed with joy. We do not weep for her. We weep for us, because we miss her and will not see her until we too rise to new life.

Death is not a bleak occasion for me. It is the graceful transition from pain to the final testing grounds where we all will answer for the choices we've made. I anticipate the day when I can look back on my life and look forward to death as a step into freedom.