Memories of 2005-01-22
My grandmother (Dad's side) passed on Saturday night, at about twenty minutes to midnight. This, I found out, just after we returned home from Dillan's wedding reception, when I heard an answering machine message from my Dad saying that grandma Alice was "getting worse". So I called his cellphone, literally just as she died.
One of the things that I remember the most about going to the nursing home immediately thereafter was how quiet it was inside. The hallways were dimly lit so as to not disturb the residents, I suppose, and that my shoes, with wet soles, squeak squeak squeaked as I walked along the seemingly endless hallways to her room.
She was just laying there in her bed, her mouth open and eyes closed, as though she was just sleeping, perhaps a very deep motionless sleep, but just sleep nonetheless. But her whole body it seemed had shrunk from when I saw her last, which had been just a week before.
My mother covered her up with a blanket while we were there, while we talked in the stunned silence that only those can, who have just been hit with a loss that they do not quite yet realize, but of which they are at least aware of. It is interesting that humans do things like that. The person is gone, the body a shell, but it comforts us to cover the body up so that it does not get cold.
It made me feel better to see that she was covered up with a warm blanket.
Everyone decided to leave, after we sat there for a little while. But my dad and I stayed for a bit, and we talked for a few minutes, just the two of us. We're both not very emotional people. I've never seen my dad cry before, but I saw tears in his eyes that night. There were tears in mine too. One after the other, we both touched her shoulder and kissed her forehead and said goodbye.
Her skin was cold and tight, and as I walked out my shoes still squeaked against the floor, but they were quieter now.
One of the things that I remember the most about going to the nursing home immediately thereafter was how quiet it was inside. The hallways were dimly lit so as to not disturb the residents, I suppose, and that my shoes, with wet soles, squeak squeak squeaked as I walked along the seemingly endless hallways to her room.
She was just laying there in her bed, her mouth open and eyes closed, as though she was just sleeping, perhaps a very deep motionless sleep, but just sleep nonetheless. But her whole body it seemed had shrunk from when I saw her last, which had been just a week before.
My mother covered her up with a blanket while we were there, while we talked in the stunned silence that only those can, who have just been hit with a loss that they do not quite yet realize, but of which they are at least aware of. It is interesting that humans do things like that. The person is gone, the body a shell, but it comforts us to cover the body up so that it does not get cold.
It made me feel better to see that she was covered up with a warm blanket.
Everyone decided to leave, after we sat there for a little while. But my dad and I stayed for a bit, and we talked for a few minutes, just the two of us. We're both not very emotional people. I've never seen my dad cry before, but I saw tears in his eyes that night. There were tears in mine too. One after the other, we both touched her shoulder and kissed her forehead and said goodbye.
Her skin was cold and tight, and as I walked out my shoes still squeaked against the floor, but they were quieter now.
