Mary Gladys Breden died December 26, 2007
You’d think after 38 years of burying gerbils and praying over dead birds, I would be able to accept the truth that my grandma is gone. But I can’t. Is it because I spent so many hours at her bedside listening to her struggle between two worlds that I still hear her? Is it because her humor and love were woven through so much of our lives that I still feel her? At this moment I don’t want to be part of the world that no longer holds her but I have responsibilities that are holding me. I’m exhausted, unsure, dazed... and in quieter moments, relieved. I was angry when she was being held in that cruel place -- robbed of both earthly joys and heavenly peace. I begged God for her death and the freedom it would afford her. I believe with everything I have that she is now walking with God Himself. So why can’t I stop crying? The Hospice staff told me that NOT to cry is to diminish the life that’s been lost. Okay... But it’s more complicated than that -- and simpler. Like in many things, my children ended up being the teacher.
The morning we lost her, I sat down with each of my children separately to ease them into this new reality of life without their great grandma. My oldest, 8, is so used to seeing me as the poster child for bravery that he didn’t know what to do with my tears. In his confusion he just stared at me with a smile on his face, speechless. (Note to self: sign Lucas up for sensitivity training.)
When I told my daughter, 6, she got smaller and smaller as she sank into the couch. There were no smiles, just closed eyes and the natural reaction to retreat. But all of a sudden she sat up, looked to the heavens and prayed with fervor, “Grandma, start getting a house ready for all of us because we are going to be living with you soon. Please make mom’s room purple because that’s her favorite color.” Ahhhh. That’s my bootstrap girl.
My youngest, 3 1/2 was the trickiest. He adored his grandma and would miss her the most. Just a few nights before he had prayed, “God, please don’t take Grandma to heaven. She can’t walk and it won’t be fun on the clouds if she can’t walk.” Not sure how to explain this huge earthly loss to a three-year-old, I decided to focus my comments on how God loved Grandma so much that he would make sure heaven was fun. I assured him that God had already given Grandma a new body, free from pain. With his legs draped over mine, he listened as I painted a new picture of her dancing amidst the clouds, breathing freely and singing with angels. He looked out the window with a sweet smile on his face, satisfied for the moment. So was I, for the moment. But then he turned to me and said, “But now we can’t hug her and kiss her and that’s sad.” There it is. Simple and complicated. Sweet and torturous. Heaven and Earth. Life and death.
We miss you, Grandma.