Missing Grandma

It has been 44 days since Grandma died.  I thought that by now, I would be used to her absence.  I thought that since she was 94 (and a half) and had lived a long and beautiful life, I would perhaps not mourn as greatly.  I thought that the ring I wear that belonged to her would bring me comfort that I have a part of her near me. I thought that I wouldn’t think of her quite so often.

How could I have been so wrong? I am not used to her absence.  Her ring that I wear, while lovely, feels odd on my finger, although it never felt odd when she would give it to me to try on when I visited.  I think of her constantly.  When I get dressed in the morning, I can hear her voice in my ear saying something funny about what I am wearing.  When I eat certain foods, I think of meals we shared.  When I see an elderly woman, walking a certain way, or with a certain look in her eye, I think of Grandma’s spunk and sass.

Sitting in class, thinking of left side CVA with right hemiparesis, I think of her last weeks.  Discussing Parkinson’s Disease, I think of how her diagnosis annoyed her and how her symptoms frustrated her.  I see her face everywhere.  I can’t eat a banana or a hard boiled egg without remembering.  When I took my girls to the airport recently, and they had to wear tracking bracelets, I was instantly brought back to when Grandma had a “granny lojack” so everyone would know where she was.  I laughed out loud remembering how she would accidentally-on-purpose leave it behind when we would go out, and how she felt so wild and naughty when she did so.

Grandma was so much more to me than an elderly grandparent.  She was a fixture. She was a constant.  My birthday is tomorrow, and for the first time in my entire life, there is no birthday card waiting for me.  There is no birthday call coming.  There is no perfectly chosen gift that she knew was just what I needed, but would never think of for myself.

Our conversations were always winding and bounced between what was going on in my life, to what drama was happening at her assisted living home, to stories of her youth (and sometimes my youth), and then to whatever cool thing I learned and wanted to share. Grandma and I could sit and chat endlessly and interspersed throughout were always her special pearls of wisdom and encouragement for whatever dream I was chasing.  She loved that I was in school, and she thought it was funny that I wanted to specialize in geriatrics.  Grandma didn’t see herself as old or in the same category as the other “old ladies” at her table during meals.

I always knew I would miss her, and especially after her stroke, I knew the end was coming, but I didn’t understand how large this Grandma sized hole in my life would be.  It doesn’t matter that I had almost 46 years with her. If anything, that makes it harder. I don’t like it.  I don’t like this empty space.  I miss you, Grandma. I just really really miss you.

Thank you for the sweater that you guided me to, and that I bought for myself, from you. I love it, and you would think it is “interesting” but you would love it for me. And you would understand that my strange taste is part of me, and you would want me to have it and wear it and love it.  I do, and I will.  As soon as I saw it, I knew it was from  you.  The first time I wore it, I could imagine your face.  That made me smile.  And miss you all the more.