I've often wondered what he saw in her. This man who had such a big heart and an affinity for simple joys. What was it exactly? What was it about this bitter, angry, selfish person with razor sharp words and a lack of compassion for those around her, specifically the ones closest to her. I have struggled, especially in the three years since his death, to understand what it was about my grandma that my grandpa loved so deeply. Despite all of the things that had happened, what was it that made him hold on until we assured him we'd take care of her?
This morning, while I was sitting at the edge of her bed, gently rubbing my thumb across her forearm, I think I finally understood. I understood that at the end of the day, and underneath it all, she is human. And as humans, we need to love and be loved, even when we don't realize it -- or understand it. In her most vulnerable and humble moment I'd ever witnessed, there it was:
Today was the first day my grandma Sophie told me she loved me and I actually believed it. She'd said that four letter word through the last 29 years of my life, but it wasn't until today that I actually believed them to be true. You see, she's spent the majority of her 93 years making the people closest to her question if she was capable of feeling anything close to love at all. (It would take far too much effort, and quite frankly, inadequate writing to try to explain the complexity that is Sophie McCallister... So just take my word for it.)
But today she told me she loved me and that she was proud of me. She said "I wish you luck. I hope you get everything you ever want in your life." She told me she was glad to have had me as her granddaughter. (And that she really would prefer to stick around for a bit longer... "I'd really like to know who wins this election," she said.) For some of you, that may sound like standard things to say for someone who realizes they're dying. But it was so much more than that. I thanked her and told her I loved her too, all the while trying not to burst into tears in the middle of this moment on a Sunday morning with her laying there in her hospital bed.
We humans, by definition, are flawed. More often than not, I've considered my grandma Sophie to be more flawed than most average people. But in spite of all the terrible things she's said to me over the years, the things she's done - and not done - to her own children, the person she was to my grandpa over nearly seven decades of marriage and during his last days... In spite of ALL of those things, all it took was for this one moment of vulnerability for me to realize that I forgive her.
I couldn't tell her that, of course. The years of her life, and how they have intersected with mine, have been far too complicated and distorted for my admission of forgiveness to make any sense to her. But I felt it in my heart, and I hope that in the days that follow, some piece of her recognizes that too.
In the weeks since she fell and broke her back and started her decline, I was sure that all of the nasty things she's said and been didn't matter to me. I was at peace with the fact that some people can go through an entire lifetime, ninety-three years in her case, and not truly experience love or joy or peace. But in that moment today with the things she said hanging in the space between us, I realized that it very much did matter. I did care. And regardless of the things that remain unsaid, to myself and to the other people who have futilely and complicatedly loved her that moment was enough.
They say that as you approach death, you start to think about life: the person you were, the ways you impacted the people around you. I've always hoped that was true. I can't say for certain that the depths of her realizations are enough for everyone in my family who are holding out for some sort of glimmer that they mattered to her. Regardless of what the next days or weeks bring, I will forever be grateful for those few moments on the edge of her bed. Because for me, it is enough... And that is what I'm going to choose to carry with me instead of all the stuff that came before.
This morning, while I was sitting at the edge of her bed, gently rubbing my thumb across her forearm, I think I finally understood. I understood that at the end of the day, and underneath it all, she is human. And as humans, we need to love and be loved, even when we don't realize it -- or understand it. In her most vulnerable and humble moment I'd ever witnessed, there it was:
Today was the first day my grandma Sophie told me she loved me and I actually believed it. She'd said that four letter word through the last 29 years of my life, but it wasn't until today that I actually believed them to be true. You see, she's spent the majority of her 93 years making the people closest to her question if she was capable of feeling anything close to love at all. (It would take far too much effort, and quite frankly, inadequate writing to try to explain the complexity that is Sophie McCallister... So just take my word for it.)
But today she told me she loved me and that she was proud of me. She said "I wish you luck. I hope you get everything you ever want in your life." She told me she was glad to have had me as her granddaughter. (And that she really would prefer to stick around for a bit longer... "I'd really like to know who wins this election," she said.) For some of you, that may sound like standard things to say for someone who realizes they're dying. But it was so much more than that. I thanked her and told her I loved her too, all the while trying not to burst into tears in the middle of this moment on a Sunday morning with her laying there in her hospital bed.
We humans, by definition, are flawed. More often than not, I've considered my grandma Sophie to be more flawed than most average people. But in spite of all the terrible things she's said to me over the years, the things she's done - and not done - to her own children, the person she was to my grandpa over nearly seven decades of marriage and during his last days... In spite of ALL of those things, all it took was for this one moment of vulnerability for me to realize that I forgive her.
I couldn't tell her that, of course. The years of her life, and how they have intersected with mine, have been far too complicated and distorted for my admission of forgiveness to make any sense to her. But I felt it in my heart, and I hope that in the days that follow, some piece of her recognizes that too.
In the weeks since she fell and broke her back and started her decline, I was sure that all of the nasty things she's said and been didn't matter to me. I was at peace with the fact that some people can go through an entire lifetime, ninety-three years in her case, and not truly experience love or joy or peace. But in that moment today with the things she said hanging in the space between us, I realized that it very much did matter. I did care. And regardless of the things that remain unsaid, to myself and to the other people who have futilely and complicatedly loved her that moment was enough.
They say that as you approach death, you start to think about life: the person you were, the ways you impacted the people around you. I've always hoped that was true. I can't say for certain that the depths of her realizations are enough for everyone in my family who are holding out for some sort of glimmer that they mattered to her. Regardless of what the next days or weeks bring, I will forever be grateful for those few moments on the edge of her bed. Because for me, it is enough... And that is what I'm going to choose to carry with me instead of all the stuff that came before.
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