Stubborn Love

On October 29th, I lost one of the toughest ladies I’ve ever known.  My Grandma went to be with Jesus that day; she was 97.  

Death is hard.  But I would submit that watching someone you love go through the slow process of dying is even harder.  It’s a relinquishing in stages, none of them easier or less painful than the last.  Death becomes almost a relief at that point, a welcome finality.  And at the end there's only a vacant shell left, an obvious testament that my Grandma’s strong personality and spicy spirit had already moved out and up.

Several months ago, Juanita (the activity director at Grandma’s assisted living center) said to me, “You act just like your Grandma!”  While I didn’t roll my eyes (which is my go to response when people tell me how much I look like my mom), I didn’t necessarily take it as a compliment right away either.  Emphasis on RIGHT AWAY.  

Let me explain: My Grandma was a far cry from a cookie-cutter version of a grandmother.  She was a world traveler.  A wine-loving, mah-jong playing, opinionated woman.  She was known at the corner grocery as “Diamonds,” since my Granddad owned a small jewelry store that kept her well supplied with gems and baubles.  She hated Jim Carrey and tattoos almost as much as she loved ice cream and attending the symphony.  She was a firecracker of a lady and lived as such: Loud, fiery, colorful.

About a year and a half ago, I was asked by my family to help keep tabs on Grandma.  At that time, she was living alone in a condo.  Throughout the week (in addition to normal family visits) a few in-home aids were scheduled to check on her, help her cook meals, ensure she was taking her medicine, etc.  Since I had free time early in the week, it made sense for me to stop by one day and do all these duties as well.  So, “Tuesdays with Grandma” was established.

I look back now and can’t even express how grateful I am for those days I spent with my Grandma.  Although, I didn’t always appreciate their value and brevity then.  We could drive each other a little crazy, both of us overconfident and pushy about OUR OPINIONS at times.  But those moments paled in comparison to our many conversations about Elijah, the tag-team letter writing to relatives, our mutual enjoyment of cooked brussel sprouts, playing a ridiculous amount of Skip-Bo and Farkle, watching 10 billion episodes of “The Price is Right.”  Really, I am spoiled with memories of her and our time together.

Before the Tuesdays though, I had a shallow view of my Grandmother.  She was, in a word, STUBBORN.  I loved her, I just didn’t want to be compared to her.  So you can see why Juanita’s statement was a little disconcerting.  And I’m not going to lie and say she became a saint in her last days either, the woman was stubborn to the end.  After suffering a fall in her assisted living apartment, she was hospitalized and contracted pneumonia.  Needing intensive rehab and care, she got admitted to a nursing home.  While being transported to the facility, she remained drowsy and out of it on pain meds.  Mom was getting her situated there, when Grandma roused herself long enough to say, “I DON’T want to be here” before dropping back to sleep.  Mom’s dramatic recounting of the whole thing made me laugh; it was so Grandma to a T.   

However in other situations, I saw a carbon copy of myself in her willfulness.  Juanita loved to tell me the trials of getting Grandma involved in activities at the center.  Especially the low impact “aerobics” they encouraged residents to do several times a week (I mean really, exercise at 96?  Forget. About. It.).  The morning in question, Grandma had gotten her tight perm of curls done when Juanita approached her about attending class.  Apparently (as Juanita tells it) Grandma sat in her chair, tossing her inch long locks behind her head like Rapunzel, and sassily proclaimed, “I can’t exercise, I just got my hair done!!!”  

As our time together increased, my view of Grandma began to soften around the edges.  She loved her family so deeply; they are what energized her, made her tick.  After we had Elijah, this became abundantly clear.  We lived in the other half of Grandma’s duplex until Elijah was 3 1/2.  Multiple visits a week were MANDATORY and included in the rent agreement ;).  Grandma never shied away from letting Elijah pound on her organ, rearrange her knick knacks, or clomp around with her cane.  Whenever he was present, it was obvious that he was the light of her life-as could be said of ANY of her great grandchildren.  She surrounded herself with their photographs and drawings.  Even while breathing her last shaky breaths, their pictures and artwork remained in reach-adorning the utilitarian surfaces of the nursing home.  Bringing sunshine to the darkest spaces.

Strangely enough, this love turned out to be an obstacle in my closeness with Grandma.  Not because I didn’t appreciate or accept her love, but because her relationship with my Granddad (Gone about 10 years now) loomed in the back of my mind.  Their interactions were sometimes tense (especially as Granddad got older) and different than the love she clearly demonstrated with my family, that undeniable sweetness and light.  Please don’t misunderstand me: These exchanges weren’t relentless and they weren’t one sided.  I saw a lot of love in that house too.  However, the later years were hard.  My Granddad wasn’t exactly channeling the Reverend Billy Graham 24/7.  Getting OLD (He was 96 when he passed) takes a lot out of a person, the restrictions of aging to that point must be frustrating.  And being a caregiver (as my Grandma was) for someone who has reached that level of maturity (haha), well that’s obviously no cake walk either.

Here’s what I learned though, after Tuesdays with Grandma became a regularity.  Sometimes love is simply showing up and being available.  I’m not dismissing the value of a kind word, but affection can be shared in many ways.  During these last months, Grandma was at the same stage of “maturity” that my Grandfather had reached all those years before.  And even the very minimal caregiving I did for her periodically provoked frustration in me.  The constant vigilance and energy expended encouraging (or discouraging) certain activities is wearing.  I could not imagine doing this kind of work full time; you would have to be some kind of angel to manage it without growing bitter.  THIS is what my Granddad recognized in Grandma, when the rest of us didn’t necessarily see it.  She was his helper; she showed up.  I began to think of this as “Stubborn Love.”

Never was that trait more evident than at Grandma’s 97th birthday party this year.  Her one request: All the great granddies be present for the celebration (So clearly, we made that happen.  Otherwise I’m certain there’s a special place reserved in Guantanamo for those who deny a 97 year old her only birthday wish).  Invitations were sent and plans were made.  But I remained skeptical about how the party would go, since Grandma had been steadily declining after being admitted to the nursing home.  She, of course, proved me wrong.  She rallied for the day and was animated, alert, and happy during the whole event.  We enjoyed an hour of reminiscing over old photo albums, reading through her mountain of cards, eating cake and ice cream.  The kids ran around, made up silly games, and unabashedly had fun with one another.  The best part?  We were all together--just like our matriarch had planned it.

 And that was that.  Because of distance, many of our family’s goodbyes that day were their last with her.  Which made those face-to-face words and embraces THAT much sweeter.  Bittersweet really.  I maintained my Tuesday (and now sometimes Wednesday too) visits with Grandma as she continued her decline into Hospice care, but didn’t think much more about the details of her party (besides being thankful we actually pulled it off) until mom brought it up later.

Mom filled me in on a conversation she had with Grandma (completely unbeknownst to me) regarding her birthday.  I can’t even type it without crying.  Grandma voiced that not all of the great grandkids WOULD be at her celebration.  My mom corrected her, knowing everyone’s concrete plans to be present.  And Grandma replied, “But Laura’s daughter won’t be there.  I will never get to see her.”

This, obviously, threw mom for a loop.  But the Holy Spirit kicked it into gear and gave her a great response.  She said, “You know what, Mom?  You might never get to meet her on earth.  But God says if you ‘delight yourself in the Lord...He will give you the desires of your heart (Psalm 37:4).’  And I believe that if seeing Laura’s daughter is YOUR desire, God can manage that in heaven.  In fact, you will probably get to see her little face before the rest of us do.”  Grandma considered this, leaned back, and said, “Well, maybe you’re right (which, in her book, was a HIGH affirmation!).”

Honestly, Grandma needed that conversation.  You’ve heard that sometimes people need “permission” to die?  Well, I think Grandma had an internal list and was checking things off.  Her nurses confirmed as much after her birthday.  “She’s given up,” they said.  In reality, she had ticked off her final box and was ready to go.  Stubborn love had kept her alive until every last thing was settled to her satisfaction.

My Grandma is in heaven now, in perfect communion both with her earthly husband and her heavenly Savior.  She’s gabbing non-stop with Jesus about ALL her great grandkids, including the ones she never got a chance to meet here on earth.  I know she’ll put a bug in His ear about our adoption too, persistently encouraging Him to grease the wheels of this process.  Because that lady is stubborn, she fights for the ones she loves.  And I can’t imagine a higher compliment than being compared to her.

Photograph courtesy of Imagery by Andrea