Love is not dying, nor dead, but flowing in its most potent way, spirit. More than a life, more than my grandma, more than a mother, more than a wife, Margaret was cultural art.My grandma was torn apart, slowly, by dementia. She drifted off into a final sleep. She drifted off in way that was beyond any of our control. She was fatigued down to a few gestures and the most beautiful eye contact. The strong willed woman that orchestrated our family, was asked to simply lie trusting her faith, trusting us, and letting her body prepare itself to let her soul launch into the heavens. My last moments with her were spent sharing our essence, dripping water from a straw into her dry mouth, and watching as she methodically swallowed. That is how I picture the divine feeding love to the world.
At her end, short bursts of interaction were enough to drain her into a restful sleep. Then she would want to visit more, letting us know by opening her eyes and gazing. My counselor training helped me understand the process, my education reminds me of the systems and how they teach us to deal with death, and still my heart hurts. My grandma had a graceful death. She laid resting in her home, her room, and on her beloved's side of the bed. A traditional photo of the sacred heart of Jesus looking over her.
As much as I wanted to be there for her last breathe I could only be with her while her warmth turned. I was confused for a moment, believing possibly that the cool rigidity of her cheek was misleading, hoping childishly that the warmth still in her hands was an indication she was still with us. She did not have an anxious expression and she looked like she did during any other nap. My grandma left peacefully.
She was a huge reason I am who I am today. She is also a reason I am who I want to be today.
