In January, my grandmother, my beloved partner in crime, fell and broke her hip. After three grueling months of surgeries, infections and physical therapy, she came home for 5 whole days before she'd dislocated it again. More surgery, throw in an infection, and finally, her body could take no more. On March 24th, she passed out of this life. She graduated, if you will.
She was there in December for my much anticipated college graduation, she cheered and cried as she watched me walk across that stage. For that, I am thankful. For a million other things, for advice and laughs and hugs, I am infinitely thankful.
Each time I leave her house, because in my mind it's still her house, I sit in my car and cry. It's so fresh that I still have books of hers that I'd borrowed, and continue to think, "Oh! I've got to get this back to her" When I get emails on the upcoming opera season, I cry. I fear the day will some when I can no longer close my eyes and hear her voice. I fear my children will forget her.
She wasn't perfect, and she'd have been the first to tell you that.
After my graduation, she told me that one of the best feelings for her was when she was with my family. And by that, she meant my husband and children - not those other incidental people, most of whom she'd given birth to. She said that when she was with us, she felt so much love, and that our love included her, and never made her feel left out. That sticks with me now, and I'm so glad we were able to give her that, especially since there was so much turmoil in her life during that last year.
I miss her so much, and so selfishly. I'd love to be able to say, as so many others do, "At least she's not in pain anymore" but I can't. Because selfishly I can't see through my own pain at having lost her. Terrible, I know. Maybe some day. Maybe some day I'll be able to think of her and not cry. Today is not that day.
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