On life

For the first time in my life, I don’t know where to begin. Over the past couple of weeks, my family and I have gone through a rollercoaster ride. My Grandmother, our leader, had been diagnosed with stage four cancer of the brain. Naturally this was something that had brought my family close together. Something she was always able to do. We rallied around her. We watched as she quickly turned from independent to a dependent, incapable women.
The amount of sadness I felt was overwhelming. I tried my hardest to deny this was happening. I pushed it out of my head, threw myself into work. I pretended like I did not have the time. A part of me just shut off. I visited her a couple of times during the first weeks of her decline. I convinced myself that my family was, once again, blowing things out of proportion. Then again, what can you do when death is eminent? How do we accept the unacceptable? I guess we all have our different ways of dealing with what is to come.
Over the next couple of weeks, I visited more often. It began to sink in. Her quick decline was more visible. I stopped one day when I was home alone and thought to myself, “What if she dies? She would be lying in a coffin with no hair.” What an insignificant though! No hair. I knew she would hate that. I could picture her saying “Kelly. Why in God’s name didn’t you give me hair. Look at me. I look as homely as a mud slang fence! Cripse all mighty.” It did make me think long and hard for about two minutes. I cried. I had for the first time accepted the fact that she might not be here soon. She eventually stopped walking, her hair fell out, her voice went and then her movements became nonexistent all in a matter of weeks. The image left with me, the final moments of her life, I will remember her grabbing at thin air with her eyes wide open.
On the day before she died, my family and I gathered to say good bye. I arrived at the house and said my hellos to everyone and entered the house to see my grandmother. What I saw was the saddest thing I have ever seen. It was about all of twenty seconds before I broke down. I could no longer deny that she would die. I think the image of her in a catatonic state and the realization that this is the end of my time with her hit me all at once. That overwhelming feeling like you can’t breathe, like you want to scream, cry, fall to your knees and question God!! That gut wrenching feeling that life has just taken control from you. I could not, and still cannot comprehend it all.
Fast-forward to the next morning. I thought, maybe she will last. That thought quickly went. After a morning of schoolwork, I got a call from Taryn at about 10:00 am. As I picked up the phone I thought” God, Please!!!! No.” As I said “Hello” I heard a deep sobbing on the other line. I knew. I said “I’ll be right there.” I choked back tears in a public coffee shop and looked into my husband’s eyes. He quickly packed everything up. What took him seconds seemed like years. I screamed in my head. We walked to the car with little said. I raced to her house which had become our Mecca.
When I arrived, I cried. I said one last good bye and waited for everyone to arrive. I looked around to see my aunts and mother sobbing. A light had gone out. The world seemed to pause. I watched as my family arrived quickly from all parts of the county. One last rush. One last moment, one last kiss. Heart breaking would be an immense understatement of the feeling that filled me, that filled us.
In the days after, I carried on. We all did. The funeral and viewing seemed a blur. I cried. Surely that was all I could do. What else was there to do? Family and friends supported us. Indeed it was in these moments one could take a step back and look at all the people who loved her just as much as we did. Neighbors, friends of hers, friends of ours, extended family, acquaintances, they all came out to see her. They all loved her.
In the days after, it’s been difficult. Sitting in that same coffee shop a week later buried in work that was due from the week before, I stopped to take a deep breath. In that moment I heard Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” This song has and will always hold special meaning to me as it was one of her favorites. I was fortunate enough to have her share this with me and Kathleen.
I had for the past couple of days been asking her to give me a sign that she was ok. I begged, I prayed to God. Just one sign, something small, anything. In that moment, in that coffee shop, with that song playing in such a loud environment, how I heard that is a small miracle. Yet I swallowed my tears and said “Thank you.” I sang along until the song finished. We left shortly after that and got into the car. Wondering where we would go for lunch, Jim turned to me and asked if he had told me about a dream he had the night before. I said he had not and he proceeded to tell me about the dream.
He had been driving and felt he needed to catch up to a black SUV. He did not know why but he felt he should. He then came to an area with many people. He recognized one of them. It was Benia. He said she was standing next to a lady he did not recognize. He said she had said to him “Tell them I’m ok. Everything is ok.” In that moment I thought to myself “I only asked for one sign but I know I don’t always pay attention, so thank you. Thank you.” I proceeded about my day, but that conversation and that song had made me aware that she is ok. That’s she can hear me and on some small level, that brings me comfort.
I updated our family tree. It was something I did not want to do. For the sake of accuracy I opened her leaf and stared at the screen. I took a small breath and clicked the mouse to edit her leaf. I realized this is a lot, but proceeded to correct the leaf. I moved the mouse and clicked Deceased, Nov 8, 2015. The fact that she had passed hit me again.
I won’t lie and pretend that I am ok. I don’t know when I will be ok again.  I still cry. I cannot talk about her without crying. The fact that I lost a big part of myself in her death will take a long time to get over. She was my mentor, my grandmother, my friend. I will always remember her and everything she did. I will always be grateful I had her at the most important times in my life. She gave me strength in times of trouble and wisdom in times of need. She took care of me as a child and gave me a happy place to go to when times were rough. She defended me and praised me and looked after me, even through college. She was my Benia.

These words were written a little under a year ago. I came across this document while going through my email. I guess it is entirely appropriate since I have been thinking so much about her. How I wish I still had her guidance. God could I use her advice on a couple things.

I still say good morning to her when I pass her picture. I still think "you know who I need to tell  this story, Benia."  Or "I know she is not going to believe to one." Then I remember.

Sometimes it seems as if she were still sitting at home reading or completing a crossword puzzle. Maybe making dinner, or sitting out on the patio. She's not though. I know it.

She's missed me graduate from school as a teacher. She's missed Kathleen's wedding and the birth of two more great grandchildren, Kristen's two beautiful twins. Gone but never forgotten. At the wedding we danced, we all danced, to the "Unicorn" song in her honor. I know the grandkids could hear that horrible fake Irish accent singing along in her raspy voice. "You're never gonna see no unicorn."

How true! She was that unicorn, and just like it, we are never gonna see it again. It's time has passed and so too did hers.