Hey there, folks.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. But especially my beautiful wife, my wonderful mother and my amazing sister.
A year ago, I lost my grandmother. She was a wonderful and hilarious woman. It happened during a time of transition in my life: I left my job as a sportswriter and became a dad. Honestly, I felt a little out of sorts then.
My life has settled very much since, but I wanted to share something that I wrote after her death. She passed close to Mother’s Day, and today felt like a good day to honor her.
I never had a platform to post it on either, so here it is. Thank you for your time and always allowing me the space in your inbox. Hope you all give the mothers in your life a few big hugs.
Take care and thanks for reading,
Ethan
I sat three pews back, at the intersection of old and new life.
Straight ahead of me was a casket, sprayed thick with pink flowers. My grandmother would’ve loved them. She lay inside. After 85 years, her body gave out. To my right was my wife. Our 3-month-old son gnawed on one of her knuckles as he wiggled in her lap.
The past month had been brutal for our family, and becoming a father added complexity to how I processed everything.
My heart broke for Margie while I fell in love with Milo.
I was fortunate to have a loving grandmother. Even more so, my grandparents made a steady imprint on my life. I didn’t go to daycare growing up: I went to Pa and Grandma’s. I remember days sprinting by my grandfather’s light blue Crown Victoria, brushing my hands against their outdoor chairs as I turned toward the door and beelined for the snack cabinet. Vanilla Oreos were a staple in there. Also Waffle Crisp cereal, which is probably the most nostalgic taste from my childhood. God, it was so good.
We ate dinner there multiple times a week. My grandfather was the cook, and I wish I had spent more time in the kitchen with him. I can still taste the chili he would make, with whatever ingredients he just happened to have. My favorite was the cubed steak he would cook once every couple month. I’m sad that Milo won’t have that same experience.
I loved my grandmother for many reasons, but most of all, her goofiness. She had no problem doing a silly dance or whatever else it took to coax out a grandchild's laugh. The dance had three main components: she’d hold her arms out to her sides. She point her index fingers up to the sky. And then she’d rock side to side, letting out the occasional “whoop!” She always hugged so tightly, and those got tighter as she aged.
Milo met his great-grandmother twice. The first visit, my mother brought both my grandmothers out to see him. They sat together on my couch and passed him back and forth for a couple hours. It seems like unreal timing now. Margie’s health started struggling about a month later.
The second was outside of the hospital, some days before she would return home the last time. In a wheelchair and hospital gown, she held him and made soft noises at him. He looked up at her, smiled and cooed.
My grandmother showed more strength over the last couple years than the family could’ve imagined. I know how sad she was living in isolation during the pandemic. Then in the middle of that, she broke her hip. At the time, only my father could go see her in the hospital. The day it happened, I drove over after work and waited for my dad in the parking deck. When he came out, we hugged and sobbed. But she made it through, recovered, and charged on through a few more years.
Her death started with a nosebleed that sent her to the hospital. Back and forth between home and healthcare, the tweaking of medicines rattled her. The battle became too hard.
When it came to visiting her, I wrestled with what to do. I didn’t want to take a small baby to the hospital, our schedule still so dependent on successful bottles and naps. I also felt a familiar feeling: avoidance.
Margie’s husband, J.R., started struggling with his health in 2015 after a stroke. At the time, I lived in a different state. I used the excuse as a cloak. I visited him sparsely. The family collectively watched an active and joyful man’s spirit break over a year. I didn’t want to see him that way, so I chose not to.
I got lucky. I had a long weekend and a gut feeling to see him while he was in the hospital for a problem that we all thought would be minor. I got to talk with him, tell him I loved him and see a grin one more time. In less than a week, he was gone.
This time, Milo had been my cloak. I never shook the shame that I deserted my grandfather. I felt that again when I saw my grandmother for the last time. She was approaching the end, waking just long enough to say “hey darling.”
I left her home that day crying. My hands turned the steering wheel toward my grandfather’s grave. I tried to apologize to him, but I had a different reason for being there: I asked him to help her leave this suffering behind if he could.
The Friday she died, I scrambled out of the house with him and everything we needed. Milo slept in the car on the way. The rest of my family had already gotten there, and she had been taken away. I like to think his little smiles helped everyone get through the sadness. I know they sure helped me.
When I returned to the graveside, hours after my grandmother’s funeral, I found some peace. Her casket sat in the ground, under the churned dirt and floral arrangements. And my wife propped up Milo as he reached for the grass.