Teach us how to live, Grandma D.

Black on white. White on black. The white snow on the ground covered the dry, north-winter grass which hugged the stones. The black coats, hats, and gloves floated slowly, with surreal emotion, over the white sugary powder, only to face the name. Etched in the mirror-like stone was the last name that echoed in our hearts, over and over again. The light, natural wooden coffin looked infinite under the snow-covered trees, only a small distance from the river past the overhanging hill. Only a scene so picturesque, as if from a movie, was meant for the woman who was worth it all: my grandma.

_ _ _ _ _

Bonnie D. was my grandma. She lived in, as she would call it: "The North Country," with that unmistakable hint of a Canadian accent. She began as a nurse in New York City, and she finally met my grandpa. They fell in love, thank God, and he yelled, "I love Bonnie!" out of his car window to embarrass her. It would, of course, embarrass her, because she was a very proper lady--most of the time. These two fell in love, Paul and Bonnie, got married in a church with a green velvet wedding dress, and ended up having four, yes four, children. Bonnie was the domestic one, staying home with the kids, as all 50s wives did, and Paul was a science teacher. Grandpa died when he was only in his lower 50s from bone cancer, and grandma lived on with the most positive attitude that I, along with many others, have probably ever witnessed.

_ _ _ _ _ 

In a matter of two months, starting in October 2013, my grandma went from being seemingly healthy and alive, to no longer beating her heart and feet on this earth. An alarming call from mom at school one afternoon halted me:

"Honey, I just want you to know that your grandma is in the hospital. I think she'll be okay, but she was having trouble breathing."

Although I held it together, my breathing thickened. Wait, this could not happen to her. She's only 78 years old; I know people much older who are unhealthy and they are still living. I somehow knew, at the time, that she would be okay.

In a matter of days, though, she was transported to a hospital three hours away in hopes for better care. As a former nurse, she wanted a second opinion from a larger hospital.

Mom made flight plans. My aunt and uncle could no longer stay at the hospital with her, but someone had to, and mom wanted to be there. At this point, the doctor was telling grandma that she could easily live for a year or more, but she would have to live with an oxygen tank. Grandma had never been one to ask anyone for help or have anyone else do her chores for her, so this was probably hard for her to hear. Still, she never complained.

Two weeks later with no progress, and they were suddenly telling her she could either stay in the hospital or go home with Hospice care (six months or less).

After being home, my grandma spent two weeks in her amazing little room set up by her children. When she and I spoke on the phone, she loved telling me about her surroundings: the bird-feeder right outside of her window; the mirror on the door, letting her see her bookcase on the other part of the room; the wonderful bed; the beautiful window.

"Everything is just grand," she would say. "Everything here is fine, dear."

I heard those words many times growing up. Her descriptive term for something wonderful, beautiful, or amazing, was grand. She would always call me, along with her other family members, dear, and it was so endearing to me. Grandma never wanted me to think anything was wrong, or that she was feeling bad, so she always reassured me things were fine--which was usually true.

This time, however, it was not true. She coughed as we got off of the phone, but we had time to say "I love you" and "I love you, too, dear."

After hanging up, I attempted to make plans to visit. Unfortunately, it seemed rushed, I would have to get an expensive flight, and much of the family planned on visiting that weekend. I was concerned that it would overwhelm her or crowd the house, which wouldn't help anyone, so I decided to wait until J and I both had off.

A couple of weeks later would be Thanksgiving break, so our plan was to drive up that week--Tuesday, more than likely.

We started hearing about a winter storm in the works, which is never good in that area, but I was still determined to make it.

I got a call from my aunt only a couple of days before our trip was planned, letting me know that Grandma was no longer responding. She was sleeping almost the entire day, and she was on strong medicine to keep her comfortable. Things had gotten bad for her and her breathing, so instead of suffering, this was the best option.

That's when my aunt told me I should probably wait and come up for the funeral. If I were to make the trip up, she might not even wake up, and I might not be able to then make the trip again.

With tears covering my red cheeks, I agreed that it was the best option. She let grandma know I probably couldn't make it, but she told her, through her closed eyes, that I loved her, and she played a recording of my church band singing "Be Thou My Vision," which just happened to be on the song list that week. It was her favorite hymn. The next day, Monday, November 25, she passed away peacefully in her sleep in the early morning hours.

_ _ _ _ _ 

Between the summer days spent with grandma, memories from the north filled the void of not having family close by. She helped give me a wonderful childhood and continued to add sunshine to my adult life--even from a distance. When I called, she was usually watching her soap, in which case, I'd have to call back, or she was cooking or doing chores. In other words, she was never idle. But, no matter what she was in the middle of, she would say something like, "Oh honey, how good of you to call! I'm just getting the ham out of the oven, so let me get my coffee and sit down." I would always try to have coffee on the other end of the line, just like if we were sitting together in her kitchen.

Some of the earliest memories of grandma's house are from the "porch." Attached to the back left of her charming little house is a room, halfway enclosed with bright, open windows. This room used to be a deck, and it became a room before I was born. It became known as the "porch." I stayed nights in this room, listening to the cars roll by on the street, watching the lights from the grocery store and the stop light, hearing the neighbors in the house next door. It was such a place for memories. Not only that, but my play-pen was out in that room when I was little, and it's possible that that's where my first memories at grandma's house started to form.

I have so many other memories, but if I wrote them all down, I would never finish this post. Here are a few (grammatically flawed memories) that I can't help but mention:

• Her garden. When I was little, this was a favorite play area. We would hide behind the tall flowers, smell the flowers, and ride around in the wheelbarrow. As we got older, this was a place of peace and appreciation. It was expected that a few time each day, whoever was in the house would grab some tea or coffee, make the way to the porch, and sit. We would sit for an hour or two sometimes, reading, knitting, and just looking at the garden, the birds, the pesky squirrels. It helped me learn that sitting around on a summer's day is perfectly acceptable. 
• Bike rides/walking in the lane. These began at a very young age, and still continue.
• Her amazing breakfasts. At least every other morning spent at her house meant we'd have an incredible breakfast awaiting us. I knew that even if I woke up really early, she'd be up, and we could sit and drink coffee together before the rest of the family woke up. I loved these moments. 
• The parade. As kids, we would go up to visit during the festival, so we always got to be at a parade and go see fireworks. Matt and I would get foam lizards and "walk" them up and down the street on the sticks. The neatest thing about this is that this past summer, we just happened to be up there for the festival. We had no idea and didn't plan this. Grandma decided to go out with us to the fireworks, which was the only trip/outing she made with us the entire trip. That was the last outing I ever had with her, which makes it really special. 
• Her jewelry. Grandma always had beautiful jewelry--mostly rings, it seemed. When I was little, I would ask to look in her jewelry box, which she never denied. From memory, she was the first to give me a nicer bracelet. It was a line of sterling silver fish, creating a chain. It was beautiful! I outgrew it as the years went on, but it was very special. As I got older, I observed from a distance and admired her always-covered fingers. One year, she gave me a set of jewelry, a ring and a bracelet, with Irish symbols around it, telling the story of St. Patrick. That was, and still is, very special to me. 
• The American flag cake for July 4th. We made this in her kitchen on a warm day, and it was awesome. Matt and I thought it was the coolest cake ever. 
• Ice cream from the corner store. I was pretty young, but I remember going to get ice cream from the corner store up the street. We would walk back and enjoy it on the picnic table in the back yard. Grandpa was there, too, and we would all hang out.
• Her chair. She was always in the same chair, usually knitting, and I sat on the couch next to her. 
• Peach pits. Grandma helped our imagination by showing us how to polish peach pits to make them collectables. We polished those suckers til they shined, and my brother still has one. 
• Newspaper pirate hats. My grandma was cool enough to know how to make pirate hats out of newspaper. We never felt uncool or unloved.
• Her smell. Her soap. She had a great sense of what smelled great. She had a blue bar soap that was always sitting on the bathroom sink. Man, I loved the smell of that stuff. It smelled like grandma. She also used lotion, and we both bought lavender lotion at the bookstore a couple of times together. She was such a lady.
• Trident gum. Grandma always had her Trident gum, ready to offer it to everyone around. Even though I'm not supposed to chew gum anymore, I buy it just to get that nostalgic flavor for a few minutes.
• Grocery trips. The grocery store is in view from her front porch, so why not walk? We would walk to get groceries often.
• Snow. When we were still visiting twice each year, snow would pile up and up. I remember the snow reaching the windows one year. It was magnificent. A path had to be dug for us to walk through the yard.
• Sandwiches. She made the best sandwiches. She would buy fresh rolls from the store and get seafood salad to put on them. Amazing!
• Dogs. She had two dogs while I was alive: Plato and Scottie. Plato was my first dog love, and she loved both of them with all of her heart.
• "Now, you tell them your grandma says..." This was a phrase she would use any time she was a little worried about me or wanted to stand up for me. If I told her about a bad day at work, she would (nicely) threaten to come down and teach them a lesson. When I started my second job, she said the same thing, figuring I wouldn't want to quit on my own. I could just tell them she told me I had to. This was her sense of humor.
• Her opinion. I never knew my grandma had an opinion until I was much older. That's when I discovered her intelligence in all things. She was very political, which is our only big difference, and she had an opinion about everything! She didn't push it on anyone, but if you asked her about something specific, she would probably start with, "Oh gall...." and go on to discuss her opinion on the matter.
• Old flicks. I learned to sit through many an old movie through my years. Turns out, I enjoyed many of them.
• Christmas. Christmas at grandma's was huge. We had to stay awake until midnight, when Santa would arrive, and we'd jump out to get our gifts. Her family had the tradition of Christmas Eve celebration, which my family still carries now. She always wanted us kids to have plenty of toys under the tree.
• Old diary entry from when I was nine: 08/03/96 "Dear Diary on Aug. 3 I went to grandma's house. We had a great time we stayed up there for  two weeks. I was great. Well what we wore really up ther for was my aunts wedding. I was great! Love Dianna"
• Another journal entry from summertime when I was much older: "I just asked Grandma what she was working on and she also made a very positive contribution to the conversation speaking of a beautiful yarn and making a 'wavy tunic.'" 7-31-08
• Cookouts. My family knows how to have a good cookout and enjoy the outside air. Grandma loved to go outside with the family, sit around the green wooden table, and have a cold beer (or three). We would sit for hours, and I'm sure she just loved it. One year, she was trying to spell a word and said, "I think it's F...U..." and we all died. She was so embarrassed, but I have a video of her laughing and laughing. 
• The best coffee. My grandma got me hooked on regular coffee. She always had to have strong, flavorful coffee (like me), so I knew I could easily have two or three cups. We would then have a cup together in the early afternoon. Good times.
• Summer 2012 shopping spree. This has to be one of my favorite memories with her. Last year, the girls of the family decided that she needed new clothes. Grandma would never ask for anything, but it was apparent that she was reusing clothes that were old. We took her on a shopping spree at the clothing store. Between the three of us, we spent over $300 giving her an entirely new wardrobe. She loved it. And to think, she didn't want to go at first! She changed her mind.
• Support. She has supported me in all of my hobbies. She loved my scrapbooks, and she always loved my photography. She loved my writing, and she always wanted me to write more. I knew that she would always support my artistic ideas.

Memories and moments from her last few days:

• "Don't forget the Jamison." [Unfortunately, I couldn't partake in this with my family, but I will as soon as I can.]
• [after making funeral plans] "Okay, now let's put it away until May." [referring to the baby's due date]
• "I think it's a girl. I'll be surprised either way, but I think it's a girl."
• "I'll be there, too." [talking about the funeral]
• [this is] "grand"-- last few words as of today, November 23, speaking of her room and her situation, which was anything but grand.

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Back up to before the funeral, right before the top of this post. Thanksgiving day was spent driving north for the funeral. We left at 5 a.m., and as I was driving up the long highway, a large, sparkling, shooting star dragged itself across the sky, leaving the most beautiful trail. It was the most magnificent moment. I knew she was looking out for us.

After numerous attempts, Justin and I found a McDonald's where we had our Thanksgiving meal. That night, we were able to sit and distract ourselves with family. We put together boards with pictures. We talked about memories. 

The visitation was Friday of that week, the day after Thanksgiving. We stood for four hours while people came to give us condolences. This was my least favorite part, but it was also very eye-opening. People came, hugged me, told me how sorry they were, and they didn't even know me. It was incredible. People were so loving. It was also very healing for me. I never thought I would want to see her open casket, but I wanted to be with her, touch her cheeks and hands, and just look at her. I talked to her. It was my closure for not making it up in time.

That night we got some food from neighbors, which was also so sweet. I didn't realize what a meal would mean to people, so I have already started bringing meals to people because of it.

And then there was the funeral. I mentioned part of it in the above, but the funeral itself was outstanding. I've only been to a few funerals in my life, but this one was absolutely unforgettable. 

She planned it only a few days before her death.

Ethnic drums opened the service. She wanted some sort of Irish drumming, but my aunt got what she could with the time she had. My grandma was a spiritual person, and she would have loved it.

The first hymn was "Be Thou My Vision," which I always knew was her favorite, but it has such a different meaning now. My dad played his trumpet for both of the hymns in the service, which is what she requested, and it echoed through the church beautifully.

Psalm 23 was read, and we shared poetry. My uncles got up together to read two poems they had selected in the den the night before. 

The closing hymn was "Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee," which was more positive, and after that was a surprise no one expected--though the family knew:

"Sweet Caroline," by Neil Diamond, was used for the celebratory recessional. I can still hear and feel the guitar strings dinging while I stood up, and I cried so hard because in that moment, I knew that it was the perfect ending to such a beautiful and wonderful life. I was laughing and crying and in disbelief but also coming to realization as we left her casket behind. We would all ride together to the grave sight from that point. 

 _ _ _ _ _ 

Now that it's been almost two months, I've been able to write about her a little more now, without breaking down. I still have days where something triggers me, and these will continue, but there's also so many positive things she has given me, which helps me move on with her in my heart. 

She inspired me to write and read, enjoying both fully.

She taught me how to have an imagination.

She showed me what a true, independent, strong woman looks like.

She showed me her independent, sassy side, which I am very proud to have in my system.

She always thought the best of me and for me.

She was selfless and never forgot to ask how the husband, animals, or students at school were doing.

She was always positive, no matter what the situation.

There are so many other things, but I'd say most importantly, she taught me about love. She had so much love for her family, her pets, her coffee, her books, her gardens, her birds (though not the squirrels or cats outside). She didn't get negative over much, and she always had something positive to say about everything. It was almost impossible to catch this woman on a bad day, hour, minute. 

Bonnie D, my grandma, will always be alive as far as I'm concerned. I can always talk about her and think about her. The only problem is that I won't get to see her again, or give her a big hug after driving twelve hours, making the whole trip worth it. She wouldn't want me to be negative, though. She'd want me to see the good in the situation. 

Her voice, her heart, and her actions were good. They were great. They were grand. I am a better person because of her.