holding hands

Dear God, take Gramma home to John, Freddie, Kenny, and Florence soon, and let her pain be over.

Mein seestor and I took a huge risk driving out to say farewell, but we made it.  Amoungst laughter and tears we have all taken turns sitting with Gramma, talking and singing to her, and chasing the nurses down to make sure her meds are administered on time.   We take turns at her bedside day and night, stroking her hands and arms, and making enough racket to wake up half the senior's lodge (which the nurses assure us isn't an issue since they take out all of their hearing aids at night.)  As she lays motionless save for the beating of her heart and her shallow breaths,  we can't help but be reminded of all the times she said, "I'm not napping - I can listen with my eyes closed," and the banter has been as loud, happy, and joyful as usual.

When my Daddy died, Gramma lamented, "Why couldn't it have been me?" She has been saying for a very long time now that she is ready to go - she wants to see John (her husband) and the three children who died before her, Freddie and Kenny and Florence.   She is in a lot of pain, her breathing is laboured, and she is unable to communicate, and yet she is still holding on.  It is both astonishing and heartbreaking.  We have often referred to her lovingly as the 'stubborn old bird.'

When I was about 8 years old, I noticed my fingers were very crooked, and far from dainty.  I used to tie popsicle sticks to my fingers with pieces of wool in the hopes that if I couldn't have dainty fingers, at least I'd have straight ones.  About 10 years ago I wrote a piece of 'postcard' prose. I had meant to enter it into a contest, but never did; I had all but forgotten about it until today when I was holding Gramma's hands:

Here are my Nana’s hands, washing the dishes. Here are her knobby knuckles and liver spots wiping gravy from this plate. Here are the translucent, powder white hands with the bulging purple veins popping just beneath the thin skin, dunking this plate in the rinse water. Here are the fingers with the bones as brittle as the china they hold, placing the dishes to the tea towel on the counter to be dried. Nana calls me to her and takes each of my tiny hands in each of her wrinkled hands and kisses their backs, and when she lets go she has pressed a creamy mint into each of my palms and she shoos me away with a sly wink. Nana’s hands, cool and smooth like polished stone or glass collected from the ocean where it has been worn by the sand beneath the waves of the rolling sea. Only they aren’t Nana’s hands. They are mine.


Dear Gramma, You have 99 and a half years on this planet already, and you're in the home stretch.  Please, go see your husband and the three children you outlived.  Tell my Daddy I say, "Hi!  Pull my finger..."


Comments

Laura Jane said…
Oh Hope, the tears are deffinately rolling down my cheeks at home this morning. I pray for Gramma too! And your family.

With love. *hugs*
Tanya said…
((Hugs)) What a beautiful blog Hope, it made me reflect upon my own great grandmother who I loved very much but passed on about 10 years ago. I hope your grandmother is able to move on very soon.
Thank you for sharing your writing this morning! It's beautiful! I'm thinking of you and will continue to pray for your family.
Lynda said…
Yes, thank you for sharing, Hope!

Thoughts and prayers go out to your whole family.

Lynda
xoxo
Carol Kerfoot said…
What a beautiful story and a beautiful photo that you will forever cherish.

Bobs gramma passed last year. She too was 99 and a half years old.
Love You Hope! You are in my thoughts.
shutterbug said…
That made me cry, Hope. I'm praying for you and your family. Take care of yourself **Hugs**
You bring thoughts of my grandmother who passed 13 years ago. I have her hands too ;)

You have such a wonderful way of preserving memories and thoughts.
Cathy said…
Beautiful story. Thank you for sharing her with us all Hope.

xo

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