We took some time out of our Sunday morning to call great grandparents. My husband and I are so fortunate that we actually have four calls to make and at least one of our grandparents there at each home.
I called my 83-(ish?) year old grandmother. She has had a rough road. She has lost a son and just buried my grandfather, her husband of over three decades just months ago. She is living alone, trying to find her footing in unknown territory surrounded with grief. She was out of breath when she answered and it took a few rings before she picked it up.
Did I wake you D? I’m so sorry. I should have waited until later in the afternoon to ca-
No, no honey. You didn’t wake me!
(Meanwhile, I could hear the excitement in her voice… excitement only because I ‘exerted’ myself to push 12 numbers and speak to her over my morning coffee… mental note to do this each week)
Actually, I was just getting of the treadmill and going to go try and check my email…..
She’s taking computer classes. Learning about email. At 83. Walking on a treadmill on Sunday morning. Despite it all. Jumping off the treadmill to happily take my call.
She is struggling. But not stopping. Just because she’s walking forward doesn’t discount her grief. She has learned.
To stop living your life won’t fix things. You have to keep moving forward. You just do.
I remember where I sat when she told me this with a strict matter of fact-ness that I didn’t quite understand at the time. It was so soon after his death. We were all falling apart around her and yet she stood strong and did things like clean the house and sign up for computer classes. And then she explained to me what I know now is her sweet strong truth. She spoke with tears in her soft eyes, her shaky elderly voice which sounds so fragile and yet so forceful all at once as she told me those words. She followed this with details of how severe her pain and grief were and how she hadn’t really slept in days and the details of how intensely she missed my Pop Pop every moment of every day. And then, as though someone flipped a switch, she clearly reiterated.
If I stop living because of this grief, he’s still gone, honey. You have to keep moving forward. To fall apart won’t bring him back… or else I would. And that’s what you have to do.
And so, we spoke as she got off the treadmill. She talked about her computer class and how the weekly assignment was to open an attachment. While I finished my coffee, I sent her a picture of her and my daughter, hugging at Christmas. I sent it as an attachment.
She’s learned to keep on putting one foot in front of the other, finding positivity and new things, keeping her head as high held as she can, despite how hard it can be to do so.
We could learn a lot from her if we just choose to listen.
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This morning, I called my other grandmother. She and I have always been close and when I call her it’s easy and fun and relaxed, like I’m calling one of my best girlfriends. I love to sit and talk to her. She, too, is struggling. Her husband, the only Pop Pop I have ‘left’ right now is in a nursing home down the street. I use the word ‘left’ loosely as he’s not really with us anymore. The shell of his goodness is here. She cannot move forward and she cannot grieve his loss as he’s somewhere in this weird mess of neither here nor there. She has been his caretaker for too long now and it’s wearing on her 80+ year old body. Her breathing is weak and her coloring isn’t what it used to be… when she was soft and tan, wrinkly and wonderfully round with plum tinted glasses and way too much makeup. I loved that look and often find myself going a little too blonde with my own hair and makeup, probably in some weird reversion to childhood mimicking my lovely Nana. We talk more as I snuggle comfortably into bed with my son to visit with her. About the kids, school, life, her knee. She fell this week on the ice. She told me she’s using a walker right now and that she can manage to the bathroom but aside from that is going to be in bed, waiting for it to heal.
Really? Oh my gosh, I hate this for you. You’re in bed still? Can you…-
Oh, I know, baby. It will be fine. The worst of it, baby is I can’t get up to see your grandpa.
Have you eaten? Can you get to the bathroom? Is there someone we can call to help you? (And for a split second I question my move away, to my freedom, to my sunshine, to my space in the world. I think of how I could be there… in the cold ice, the dank home with her, washing her and holding her soft hand)
I begin to get upset and she senses it, I’m sure. She cleared her throat and got her breath.
Oh, honey. It’s no fun, but this is what life is all about. It will get better. Things always get better. You just have to turn the page. I promise.
I know but…
That’s the truth baby, we just have to turn the page. It always gets better.
She cleared her throat, we exchanged I love you’s and she always tells me she loves me more. This time was no different. From her bed, alone in a house, surrounded by ice. Ice on her knee, ice on her drive, a walker by her side… she finds optimism and positivity and love. Just turn the page, baby.
We could learn a lot from her if we just choose to listen.
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I will listen more. Call more. Love more. Stand tall and strong more. Because of them.
My thoughts for today- K
thanks for sharing. so glad you have them. so glad they don't choose to make you feel guilty, but inspire you while they are living their own lives.
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