I was the person who never knew loss or death or any real tragedy. Into my adulthood, my family remained complete - with rare injuries and sickness - and no needs for any goodbyes.
Then it was my grandma, my dad's mom - who we never expected to say goodbye to. A bladder surgery, followed by complications, followed by what we all thought was Alzheimer's - but now I really think was toxicity from a serious uti/kidney infection - and then she was sick and then she was gone. For the last year or so it was hard. She wasn't the same and would ask questions that showed her mind was years in the past - she knew me but she thought I was in high school rather than college and with the loss of bladder control - the smell of their home was difficult at best. So, we didn't visit as often that year and we said goodbye to the grandma we had known before she was really gone - but then when she went, the pain she felt, the struggle - it was hard - and the unsaid truths lingered - it was hard feeling like we should have done more to get her healthy, but no one had known she was sick. We always said that in the end it would be that way - she was such a servant and the consummate hostess a proverbs 31 example to us all, and a product of the 50s housewife generation - she would never admit that she was hurting or didn't have everything under control - it just wasn't done. In the end, she was surrounded by almost all of her family, praying, laughing, loving, living. This was my first taste of death - my first goodbye - lessened by knowing that she was now in heaven and felt no more pain - but life changing all the same. She was and is missed.
My grandpa - he was never really the same after she left him - and I'm not quite sure he ever really got over it - after all he was always the sick one with open heart surgeries and the rest - he was always supposed to go first - but instead he outlived her by years - his love, his life. He lived with my parents and then on his own, and eventually was sick enough to need to be in a medically supported nursing home. In and out of the hospitals, time and again, the claimed he wouldn't make it time and again - and to be honest we were never quite sure if he wanted to come back to us. My papa - he loved me - he wasn't expressive, he didn't share or talk about life or emotions - but his love for me was palpable. He was proud of me and loved my boys and was in awe of them and their beauty. After Owen was born he told me how proud he was to have a great grandson and Noah just added to his joy.
In November, my little family ventured to the desert to make some decisions on our house and celebrate thanksgiving with my family. While we were there, we made the trek with my whole family to visit Papa in his "home" (which he called a prison and hated) about 2 hours from where my parents live in the town where my uncle and his family live. Papa was able to meet Noah for the first time and we were able to capture a few beautiful pictures and sort of say our goodbyes - as we didn't imagine that we would all be together again before he passed as we were not expecting to be in the desert again until we move back in July.
Sure enough, on Christmas Eve as we headed up north to visit J's family, we got a call that my Papa who had been in the hospital with mrsa and pneumonia was being moved to hospice. To say that this put a damper on Christmas would be a bit of an understatement! I spent the next several days "celebrating" with a heavy heart - and by the 26th my MIL had offered to fly the boys and myself back home to say goodbye. I arrived in the desert on the evening of the 27th and my mom and I drove down to the VA the next morning. The nurses said that the babies shouldn't come in, so my parents stayed outside with the boys who were unhappy to see me leave after so much upheaval and constant travel - but eventually calmed with their grandparents. The family had all assembled - uncles and aunts and cousins - all holding vigil each day and night ensuring that he was never alone. They left to give me a moment alone with him - to say my own goodbyes - and everyone went outside to see the boys. I told him I loved him and that I knew it hurt and that it would be okay to let go and say goodbye - that grandma and Jesus were waiting for him - and I thanked him - I thanked him for loving me, for being the man he was, for everything he had done for us all. And within minutes - his breathing calmed and slowed and he was gone - all the while holding my hand. My papa and grandma were both gone - I held his hand for a while longer - having called my dad and telling him I thought it was close - although he didn't seem to believe me. He called back after I tried calling him a few more times, unsure of whether or not he was really gone, I never let go of his hand - not wanting to abandon him in his last moments if he wasn't quite gone - I told my dad that I thought he was gone and in moments the boys (my dad and uncles) had rushed the room - my aunts and cousins with tears in their eyes - and me not quite sure how to feel - and I'm still not - over a month later and I'm still not quite sure. My chest feels tight and swells when I think of it, but I can't really cry - I know his quality of life was less than I'd want for him and I know he's in heaven - what more could I want. Yet still there is an ache - not the ache of the unsaid as I had with my grandma - as I told him all of those things in our last moments alone - the ache is for the man I didn't get to know as fully as I'd like, the stories he'll never tell, for my father - the orphan, for my boys who won't remember their great-grandfather. I miss him - I want him back, but I don't want him to hurt - so I know that goodbye was best. And best that these goodbyes happen while the boys are too young to remember the pain. Yet, I'm struggling - I'm not bouncing back like I feel I should - I'm not sure if it's struggling to deal with the experience of being alone with him when he passed - but I don't think that's it - I think that was okay and I was glad to be that safe place for him to let go. I just...I just hurt - I'm withdrawn after nearly a month away from this place that we currently call home - from the end of October through the beginning of January - the boys and I were away from home for over 5 weeks - followed by our car being rear ended and then colds and terrible weather - we haven't seen our friends in months - we haven't been to playdates or had a routine - and now, the clock is ticking for the next big change and move - and the effort to reconnect only to face more goodbyes in only four months overwhelms me. And now, today we here that J's grandmother was placed on hospice and we must travel again to say our goodbyes and support my MIL as she loses her mother.
It seems to be the season of goodbyes - and it is not a season I relish. I'm struggling with the change and the finality and the loss. I'm struggling to determine what I should hold onto and what I need to let go. This move back home, one I so looked forward to when we arrived, has now become a source of pain. I have friends and a life here - that I will miss - I don't like goodbyes - I don't like losing - I guess no one does - my heart is heavy for these losses, natural and necessary though as they may be. Pray for us - as we travel again - as we say goodbye again - as we find our way back to normal only to prepare for more changes. Such is life, and I, for one, am grateful to be alive.
