"Always and Forever"

Love blinded me. As it comforted, inspired, and gave me hope in my darkest hours, it blinded me. My father always reminds me that life works two ways: “You’re born on this Earth, and surely you will either die or be killed.” Direct, but honest. He always reminds me that nobody escapes death. Yet in my mind, I never accepted that my grandma would die. Her name is Ellen Amelia Walton-Williams, and she will always be my greatest love.

As old as I am, the notion of an immortal elderly woman is silly. The idea that I’d want her here, always, is just selfish. Yet as she drew closer and closer to her nineties, I found myself becoming comfortable with the thought that death was nowhere near her. I denied it. She was going to be here forever. Aside from a few ailments, she was a very healthy woman. She had Alzheimer's disease, but she was just as friendly and funny as ever. My comfort didn’t allow me room to accept what would come naturally. I never wanted to let go.

At 89, my grandmother was still trying to cook, clean, and help. In the last years of her life, very little had changed about her, save for a few quirks. She started to forget who we were, but still showed us kindness. She loved good food and conversation, and it was always a joy to have her around. Since she was doing so well, who was thinking about death? It was always in the back of my mind.

Time has a way of waking you up. When she moved back to Chicago from Paris, TN, the next year was my wake up call. My dad’s reports started out happy. There were anecdotes of things said, hilarious accounts of granny and frozen cocktails, and touching tidbits of mother and son moments where she told daddy how much she loved him. After decades of her taking care of our little family, he was taking pride in caring for her. She’d usually be between Tennessee and Illinois during the warm and cold months, but this trip would be her last.

When the reports started taking a more serious tone, my father first tried to shield me:

“She’s transitioning/changing/becoming different, but everything is all right.”

He kept reassuring me that all was well. I believed him, knowing that changes with her had the tendency to level out. Dad didn’t let on that they weren’t stopping, because he was handling things himself. He wasn’t thinking of nurses and hospice care. He was aware that life was happening, but I think that love’s comfort also blinded him. Who is ever ready to say goodbye?

I woke up. I prepared myself, slowly. The updates became a little more serious. The word “transition” is strong. When my father eventually did have to look into hospice care, I faced everything all at once. My grandmother’s life was drastically changing. I wanted to come as soon as possible, but he kept saying no. The hospice nurses were taking good care of her. But, what would happen if she died before I got there? What would happen if I never got to speak to her again?

Let me say this—you are a human being. Mental preparation is great! It can really set you up to be confident and ready. You can plan, troubleshoot ahead of time, and be a leader if needed. Yet it is emotion, moments, and reaction that may leave you terribly unprepared. As “prepared” as I thought I was, nothing tore down my walls more than the conversation I had with my grandmother on April 26th, 2018. This would be the last conversation I’d ever have with her.

She was lucid that day. Fresh memory, quick to call me by both name and nickname. She told me she loved me. She told me how proud she was of me. I’m walking through WalMart with tears in my eyes, but I don’t care. The sound of her voice soothed my soul. At that moment, I knew time was no longer on our side. Still, I listened to dad. I didn’t come until much later in June.

June is her birthday month. She was born June 6th, 1927. I decided that I was going to come before then, and try to bring some cheer to the family by having a quiet little dinner at home. I left that Sunday, on the 3rd. I was so sure that I was going to make it to see her. Time....was up. An hour into my departure, she passed away. I didn’t find out until I made it to Nashville to see my uncle. Crushed, I held my head high. I shed a few tears, letting the pain radiate within my body.

Oh, my soul. My poor little-shocked soul. Those dinner plans and the little-boxed cake were over with. My mental prep to get over what she may look like was set aflame. My sorrow was soft, but expected. I carried myself in strength, after years and years of worrying that I wouldn’t act right. I spent my whole twenties trying to face my grandmother’s mortality. When I finally had to face it, it was nothing like the scenarios I’d imagined.

Of course it hurt. I sat in the van that picked me up from the bus station, trying to hide my sorrow. I sat in my uncle’s car, trying to be brave as hell. I maintained all that way to Chicago, trying to show the whole world that Ellen Amelia Walton-Williams raised a tough cookie. Besides, her kids needed composure. I’d already walked the road of losing my mother. Yet there I was again, losing my second one.

When my family and I went to view her body in the funeral home, I felt like I was a full woman. Death had presented itself, and the childish and selfish idea of forever was over. My grandmother had actually died, and she was dressed in a white suit. She looked heavenly. When my father cried, I held him to validate his emotions. He’d given up so much to care for my grandmother, and had to face her changes alone. His own wife, my mother, was long gone. At the end of grandmother’s life, my father was also waking up. We looked at her together, and it seemed as if she were sleeping as always.

When she slept, it was beautiful. Anything she did, I think, was beautiful. She cooked and sewed with such grace and talent. She put together the most intricate pieces of embroidery work I’d ever seen. She loved with her whole heart and took me in as her own when my mother died in 1988. She showed me the meaning of unconditional love for 32 years of my life, and I’m so thankful to have known her. Losing her has made me feel so odd these days. Is this still planet Earth?

When we said our goodbyes, we wore green. It was her favorite color. She hated the color black. Black reminded her of death. When my cousin began playing "Goin’ Up Yonder" on his trumpet, my heart exploded. This was it. Grandma was going to be buried. He played the song beautifully, and her funeral went by rather quietly and with decorum. Nobody wept loudly, nobody tried to jump in her grave. We were all waking up. She raised us all, as she put it, “not to be carryin’ on and all that.” I laugh, because she devoted so much time to make sure we didn’t act like idiots.

Just like that, her chapter closed.

I decided that I was going to take a piece from Heatwave’s "Always and Forever". Yes, it’s a rather thick and heavy love song. I just want the title. I just want to think of the times that I didn’t feel alone with my grandmother in my corner. I just want to recall the beauty of the brown in her eyes, and how even as that glossed over, I still saw the woman who lifted me up and healed my soul. There’s no one in the world like her.

My process will never be over. I’m allowing myself time to ache and cry. My sleeping schedule is forever messed up, and I look at her pictures daily. However, I will not let sorrow consume me forever. I will be fine, someday. Or, something close to it. I have decided, however, to remember the moments where she showed me true, honest, and pure love. I will always treasure those moments.