In Memoriam

My grandma passed away today. She has been degenerating over the last couple years due to pulmonary hypertension. Thursday before Memorial Day she fell in her home, blacking out from the dizzyness and little oxygen she was receiving. She had been in the hospital for several days and just Monday was moved to a care facility. Today her heart failed her and she passed away at 12:10 p.m. If she had had this disease a decade earlier there wouldn't have been a treatment for her and she wouldn't have made it to 90 years old. Arguably, she's been kept alive beyond her time (although I'm not sure I believe it works like that).

I've been struck by the normalcy of my day. This morning I woke up and made breakfast (Tyler had Kix. Talmage and I had granola). I tidied the kitchen and took a shower. I gave a talk at the local Care Center and after picked Talmage up from Aunt Lori's house. 12:10 occurred as I was driving the dog to Petsmart to be groomed. After 12:10 I went to Costco and we ate lunch there. I had a turkey wrap and a berry smoothie and Talmage had a hot dog. I taught my class tonight. I ordered pictures.

Two things plague me.

One, I had considered going to visit Grandma this morning, but instead decided to go this evening and missed her. Two, I've been anxious each time I've seen Grandma for the last several years, due to the biography of our ancestor, Nephi Fawcett, she's asked me to write but which I haven't completed. I feel like I'm her unfinished business left on Earth.

But I am aware that these are selfish concerns and that they have nothing to do with Grandma. So tonight, I would like to write about her.

Grandma loved the color turquoise. Her wardrobe revealed spots of magenta and brief flashes of purple, but turquoise was the main palette.

Grandma was the most social woman I know. She could trace the Adamic link to everyone on this Earth. It was a common occurrence for her to turn around in a restaurant and say to the next table "Did I hear you say you're from Connecticut? I used to live in New Jersey. Maybe we know the same people." And the amazing thing was that she always did know the same people.

Grandma loved to travel. As a small sampling, she went with her husband to Colorado, India, and Bora Bora. She took my mother to China, Egypt, and Peru. She took me to Pennsylvania, Canada, and Hawaii. We'd frequently play How Many States Have You Been In. I believe she's been in all 50.

Grandma is comfortable with anyone. Anyone. Growing up in my home, we regularly had visitors from Brazil. And Grandma could tell them extensive stories about the Riders.

Grandma is a teacher. I have watched and enjoyed slide presentations, old tapes, family movies from the 40s for hours on end. When I was seven.

Grandma is the lead character in The Most Romantic Story I Have Ever Known. The World War II soldiers were stationed in Salt Lake and Grandma accompanied her friend to go dance with the men. She looked smashing that evening, and Dick Murray, upon entering the hall, turned to his friend and said, "Hold my hat; I'm going to dance with the girl in the red dress." Their honeymoon two years later lastest a full year.

I spent Memorial Day with her at my brother's house. She had a hard time making it to the bathroom and passed out from the exertion of being carried in a wheelchair. I stayed awake late that evening and pondered how frightening it would be to feel your body falling apart inside of you. But Grandma wasn't frightened. Grandma is almost incapable of depression or pessimism, despite a life that has known some black times. She seemed constant and normal, ready for the next trip.

The nurses said she was cheerful this morning, but slipped into a fairly catatonic state toward noon. Mom was with her at this point. She rubbed her arm and noted that she didn't look like herself. The doctors called my mom out to let her know there was nothing more to do. Mom noticed that during this conversation, Grandma smiled, perhaps greeting or anticipating the other side (and I do believe it works like that).

In the last week, Mom encouraged Grandma to say I love you to her grandchildren. When I said goodbye to her Sunday night, she said "I love you, Laura," after I kissed her on the forehead. It was nice to hear it vocalized. But I almost preferred our previous goodbyes. I'd talk to her on the phone and ask her about her day, her friends who took her to lunch, her meeting at the DUP. I'd close by telling her that I loved her. "Okay, cupie," she'd laugh. Then she'd be gone.




I posted this late last night. When I woke up this morning, I realized I had unconciously based it on "The Last Shot" by Tobias Wolff. My credits and apologies.