March 24, 2012
Today I turned 37. And today, I buried my Grandmother.
It was a beautiful Spring day in south Mississippi. The sun was shining. The sky was bright blue. Mom says it was like that 37 years ago, too. We were, after all, in the same city.
We learned in late February that her heart disease had all but claimed her, and we had only a few months left with her at most. We took a few days off work and made the trip down. She'd been sent home on hospice care. No one told her. Still, I think she knew. She sat up in bed, having full conversations. She gave hugs and kisses.
I knew she may not last until spring break when we could return. She did, though. Always was a fighter.
When we returned on March 18th, she was completely different. She still knew us all, just by the sound of our voices. She didn't open her eyes much at all. Still, she responded.
I told her I loved her a lot.
She said she loved me too.
She said my name. Sometimes.
Other times, she called me precious.
"Ashley, you're precious."
"I love you too, precious."
"Bye, precious..."
I will always be grateful to God for those few days. Sunday and Monday. They upped her meds after that, and she never responded to us again. She drew her last breath Wednesday night, March 21.
When it was decided that we would hold her funeral on Saturday, I silently determined to pretend it wasn't my birthday at all. Celebrating felt inappropriate. In all those years, she never once forgot my birthday. All 36 of the others were acknowledged by her specifically. I could give this one up. For her. For all of us. It was a simple decision. I didn't feel like celebrating anyway. There would be other birthdays. There would never be another MawMaw.
I sang for her. I played the piano myself so my mind would be too occupied to think.
That almost worked.
Three of my cousins read poems they had written about her. For her.
My brother and all the male cousins were pall bearers.
It was right in a way I can't fully describe. We were giving her what we could, each expressing love in our own way, handling her goodbye ceremony ourselves. Music... poetry... physically carrying her body to its final resting place.....
It felt like one last thing we could do for her.
Afterward, when we were all together, I hugged every sibling, every cousin, every aunt, every uncle. And my parents. The first two to rejoice over me thirty-seven years ago today.
I savored each of those hugs, looked at each face and wondered.....
Do they know? Can they possibly be aware of what they mean to me? How I cherish every memory with each of them... how I see them, every single one of them, as a part of me?
It was the anniversary of my Life's beginning, and despite my protests, my parents were unwilling to let it go by. We went to dinner. Two of my aunts and the cousins who hadn't already flown out joined us. My sister-in-law made a cake. We were together. There were cards and gift cards, but my favorite gifts were their hugs. In the face of loss, I was acutely aware of the magnificent gift it was to be in their presence, to hold each of them close to me for a few moments and drink in their love, to pour my own love onto each of them as best I could. It turned out to be a uniquely blessed day. And I hadn't expected that.
I felt the presence of God with me all day. He was there when it was time to sing and I wasn't sure I could hold it together. In the face of each friend, each relative, each flower....and each of those rich, life-affirming hugs. For it is Love that speaks of Him loudest. He taught me much through her death. He made me aware of what is important and of what is not.
It was not a day of unblemished happiness. But it was one of blessings; rich, deep, and recognized.
I realize at the end of it, that in this day I have lived.
Today I laughed with those I love. And I cried with them, too.
Today I rejoiced over Life's beginning. And I grieved over its ending.
Today I celebrated togetherness. And I mourned a separation.
Today I loved. And today I lost.
Today I lived.
Today, I turned 37. And today, I buried my Grandmother.
