I stood in a New Zealand farm kitchen, stomach full of barbecued lamb, sobbing into my brother’s arms. I closed my eyes, shutting out the blinking Christmas lights surrounding his mother-in-law’s window.
Our grandmother lay dying half a world away, near the end of a battle with Alzheimer’s that left her too exhausted to eat, to drink, to live. My mom had just spent a cold Canadian Christmas Eve with Grandma, curled up with her through the night.
“I don’t think she knew I was there,” Mom said.
“She knew,” I said.
I cried more, still too many miles away. I could imagine my mom sharing a tiny bed with her mom, ever conscious of Grandma’s fragility. In my mind – juxtaposed on top of that image – was a photo of Mom, seated on Grandma’s couch, holding me as a sleeping babe, generations layered through memory.
The next morning, already Boxing Day Down Under, my husband and I left the small community of Kimbolton and drove to Palmerston North. Friends we’d taught with in the Middle East, M and B, greeted us warmly.
“I’m expecting a call,” I told B, walking into the house.
M took us for a drive up the back road of a mountain to see giant windmills whooshing the air. I stood up there, hair blowing in the wind, eyes on the landscape, thoughts in another hemisphere.
When we returned to the house, B met us at the end of the walk. “Your mom called,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I inhaled, took the phone she placed in my hand, and walked to her bedroom, exhaling purposefully with each step.
I sat on the bed and called.
“Grandma’s gone,” Mom said. “An hour ago. Just after Christmas dinner. Auntie D and I were with her. We knew she was going,” she paused to gather strength. “We held her hands and said the Lord’s Prayer. Aloud. We had just said ‘Amen.’ Then Grandma took her last breath.”
I tried to hold my breath, to be strong for Mom, to keep my sobs at bay. The bedroom door creaked open. B appeared, holding a glass. “It’s a G and T,” she whispered, handing it to me and closing the door behind her.
I cried. For my grandma. For my mom. For the distance of half a world. For the kindness of friends. For the elongated grief of Alzheimer’s.
And for the jarring poetry of death.
What a moving and lovely memory, Leanne. Your love and strength shine in every word and I’ll bet your grandmother felt your spirit even from so far away. Take a moment or sixteen today and remember her from your favorite memories. She’s with you now and always.
Happy Christmas to you and your family.
Thanks, Tameri. My siblings and cousins and I (all 10 of us) had a nice email chain going all of yesterday, recalling our favourite Grandma memories. Thanks for the kind words.
Leanne, this is beautiful. Sad but beautifully expressed. I’m so sorry for your loss, even ten years later.
December always makes me remember my grandparents too. I lost both paternal grandparents in December, four years apart from each other.
My grandmother was 11 years ago on the 21st.
You don’t forget where you were. It is burned into memory.
Hugs to you and yours, my friend.
Thanks, Kel. I didn’t realize you lost both of yours in December. It’s both a month of darkness and a month of hope.
Beautifully written.
A little boy in our community lost his mother this last Wednesday. My heart breaks for the family.
Hope you have had a wonderful Christmas.
That breaks my heart, Annie. I was lucky enough to know all of my grandparents, losing my first only when I was ten. To lose a parent so young would be…I don’t know…difficult/unfathomable/horrific/unfair.
Thanks so much for offering that to us.
Thanks for reading.
A very moving account, Leanne. D and I know the pain of losing someone when you are half a world away. Thanks for sharing your experience in such powerful words.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
Thanks, K. You definitely get it then. I was blessed to be with my brother the day before and good friends the day of.
This was beautifully written Leanne. Thank you for sharing your story~
Merry Christmas to you!
Thanks, Susie. I had a beautiful day with my parents in Arizona, and 115 other RVers from all over the continent! Hope you enjoyed yours…
A touching and sad memory, Leanne. I’m certain she knew your mom was there, just as she knew you were there in spirit. The part of us that lives in God never suffers from illness and Alzheimers could not touch that part of her. She rests peacefully in Heaven and watches over you and yours.
I have a memory of my father-in-law’s death. The entire family was allowed to spend the night in his room as he lay taking his final breaths. It was not quiet nor was it quick. I remember waking up and seeing his wife of over fifty years tracing the peaks and valleys of his face over and over and brushing his hair with her hand. She never took her eyes off of him. It took me a while to realize that she was afraid she would forget his face. I was at once heartbroken and stunned by the depth of her love and her fear of losing the love of her life. Of course, a love like that is never truly lost. It simply becomes immortal. Fifteen years later I am assured she hasn’t forgotten his face.
God bless you and your family this Christmas and always, Leanne.
Teresa, that image of that hospital room is beautiful. Jarring poetry, indeed. Thanks so much for offering that.
I have some melancholy December memories as well. It’s good to remember and retell, especially when it’s done this well.
Thanks, Clay. It’s a month of darkness for us in the north, isn’t it? But a month of hope, too. Maybe it’s that precarious balance that makes us reflective.
The holidays always make us pine for our loved ones; this is so lovely. I have never written about my grandmother’s death. I’m not sure anyone would believe it: the circumstances are so surreal. To deny what I experienced is to reject the possibility of a spirit world. To accept it means we are surrounded by angels. I know what I know.
I am glad you are still remembering your grandmother – honoring her memory – after all these years. And she will always live for as long as her name is remembered. Tell your children her stories. Show them her pictures that they might know her too.
Renzay, I believe it. The older I get, the more I believe. Ego kind of leaves the building. And yes. Her stories. Her recipes. Her daughter, my mom.
Thank you for such a wonderful page. I am glad you still remember the love and joy your grandmother always gave you. Merry Christmas.
Thank you for the kind comment. The merriest of Christmases to you too.
Such a beautiful post, such a poignant memory. Thank you for sharing. My mother also died from Alzheimer’s. I know how difficult and frustrating this disease is. But no matter what, she’ll always be with you, in your heart.
I didn’t know that Monica. It is a tragic disease, difficult for daughters, I know, as I watched my mom grieve multiple times, multiple layers. Hugs.
Very tenderly and thoughtfully written, Leanne. It’s so much more difficult to lose a loved one, or go through some other difficult life experience during the holidays since the holidays are usually joyful times. Sounds like you have a lot of great memories to help counter the sadness.
Thanks, M. Yes, there were a lot of great memories. And we all thought it was very Grandma-like in the way she died: she waited until Christmas dinner was done before she passed. Still thoughtful in her death.
Leanne, I was shocked when I saw a link to “Funny or Die” below your post. I’ll bet your Grandmother planted it. It is the advertisement of the day. ;}
I love that, Teresa! Now that’s poetic. Or maybe prophetic…
Beautiful account of the bittersweet. Even though I don’t mention it in my own blog, my husband also has Alz. (I only talk about his Parkinson’s) and so we are approaching some difficult times ahead. Your line ‘the elongated grief of AD’ really got to me.
I’m so, so sorry to hear that. My paternal grandfather had both Lou Gehrig’s disease and Parkinson’s, so I’m somewhat familiar with the symptoms. But in your husband. Together with Alz. Elongated, cyclical grief. Warmest hugs to you all.
Thank you for sharing a sad but beautiful story. Having kids has certainly taught me that the best most precious things in life come only at the risk of tremendous heartbreak. I hope you are enjoying a Christmas surrounded by love and good memories.
Thanks, Wendy. You put that beautifully.
Leanne, thanks for sharing this. Difficult memories are associated with Christmas for so many people. It takes bravery to share those memories, but it puts others at ease. Beautiful writing.
Thanks, Kim. I’ve been writing this piece in my head for weeks.
Leanne – This is just beautifully said. Alzheimer’s is a thief of the highest order, slowly stealing pieces of beautiful people whom we love. It’s amazing to me, however, that when someone who has suffered through it passes from this life to the next, that person comes back to us as he/she once was – memories flow, stories pour out and we’re re-connected in wonderfully enriching ways. Telling this story so very well is one way to continue that connection, to remember that even in the saddest moments, this person was a gift in your life. Thanks for sharing that gift with us this Christmas night.
Thanks, Diana. It is a thief indeed: that metaphor stands alone. Grandma always had time to listen to our stories…and to be part of one. And she adored my Grandfather’s sense of humour, something I’ve inherited a bit of. They both also raised me for a few months when I was a 18 months old and my mom was fighting for her life in the hospital.
What a beautifully written piece, Leanne. I hope you can begin to enjoy the season remembering fond memories of your grandma as time goes on. x
Thanks, Catherine. I have so many great memories; I’m honoured to have known my Grandma so long. Thanks for the kind comment.
This is a beautiful and heartfelt piece, Leanne. Thank you for gifting it to us, for allowing us to enter in to your grief 10 years ago and now in the retelling of it.
You’re welcome, Leigh. It’s amazing what a journey back-in-time does.
This is so beautiful and such a heartbreaking departure from your usual funny. I like that you’re showing different facets of who you are and all the moments that have made you. This is sad, Mama. Very, very sad. But it is still a wonderful tribute to your grandmother and your mother – what searing image, the daughter huddled with her mother. Wow.
Thanks, Liz, for enduring my “other side.” It feels different (good different) to explore the other side.
This feels like such a quiet piece, I almost don’t want to comment, yet I want you to know I’m here, to let you know I see the beauty, and the pain, and the love. Thinking of you and of Star of the East. xo
And it was you who started this journey down memory lane, T. You harbinger of grace, you.
Aw, “harbinger of grace.” I like that almost more than “queen of innuendo.” Thanks. 🙂
So beautifully written. Thank you for sharing it with us. Your strength and love shown through with grace. Here’s to you!
Thank you, Natalie. 🙂
Thanks for such a poignant post. I remember jumping in my car to head to Cincinnati the day my mother called and told me my grandmother was nearing death in her hospice bed. I arrived ten minutes too late. I sobbed with my mom and my aunts but the power of being in that room with all of the strong females of my life, led by my grandmother, lifted me up. Thanks for bringing this memory back to me!
You’re so brave to share this. In the end for her it was a peaceful way to go, I hope knowing that is a comfort to you. *hug*
Oh Leanne. This post was so lovely and courageous ~ an honest recounting of that day a decade ago.
My goodness but your words are perfect. Raw. Tender. Like it was yesterday, which I’m sure – in a way – is how it feels.
My maternal grandparents are both still with us. Grandpa is almost 93 and Grandma is 88. I can’t believe how lucky I am to be 43 years old with two children in middle school who know their great grandparents so well.
In some ways, this will make the inevitable loss more difficult, perhaps. But I wouldn’t trade our situation. Obviously.
So here’s to love that endures; to family and to memories.
On both ends of the spectrum.