verklempt

Twenty-five years ago my Great Grandfather died. I was lucky to know four of my Great Grandparents and I still have one and I’m terrified because she is going to be called Home soon.

I don’t know what is going to happen when she is called Home, but I do know that I am not going to know how to handle myself. I pride myself on my heart being as hard and as dark as Darth Vader’s helmet. I have tremendous stoicism about events that cripple other people emotionally. I think this is going to be the event that breaks the dam and things are going to come rushing out.

When we buried her daughter, my grandmother, the text of the sermon was:

When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, "Dear woman, here is your son," and to the disciple, "Here is your mother." From that time on, this disciple took her into his home. The Gospel according to Saint John (19: 26-27)

Her daughter’s last message to her children was, “take care of my mother.” To their credit, none of them got it initially and other people prided themselves on figuring it out. Grandma told me when I visited her the weekend before she died that she wanted us to take care of her mother when she was gone and detailed how. Considering the circumstances and nature of her marriage it made perfect sense that she would be cryptic, that passage for us had this message.

I also knew that she was reminding us that while she leaving us that we would still have her mother to care for us, as we always had. I was verklempt upon hearing that message; torn by the emotions that while we had this woman who loves us profoundly and cares for us that the clock was running down on our time with her as well.

This is the only person I am related to that I feel loved by. It hurts to say that and it is more a critique on the circumstances of my own mental health and religious predispositions than a condemnation of my family. I’m special to her – I am the only one of her great grandchild who remembers her husband. Their love remains so compelling a quarter century after his death that remembering him and being able to tell and listen to stories about him makes me so important to her. After her Lord, she loved him more than anything and more than anyone has ever loved anyone else. I smile inside whenever anyone talks about a love being ‘powerful,’ because they really have no concept of what love is without experiencing this.

Her faith is also profound, moving in its own right. Her conviction, her living of her faith is such that you know what it means to move mountains. When her daughter died she told us that we were not sad, we were not mourning but we were jealous that she had been called Home and we had not been. We should not grieve a loss but look forward ourselves to the time when we could go to Heaven as well.

However, when Jesus heard that Lazarus died the English Bible ineptly states that “Jesus wept.” A closer look at the Greek in which the Bible is written would tell us that when Jesus heard of Lazarus’ death his soul raged in anguish.

I’m afraid that is going to happen.

I’m afraid that it has already started.

I have been nasty and melancholy since getting the news. A coworker told me her unqualified, rude opinion of me and it hurt my feelings – when her appraisal could have also been given to the nearest mirror as well. This normally would never bother me and I would let it go without another thought but it was eating at me because more important things are as well. Thankfully, when one of the teachers on my team – the most vicious gossip on our campus – was complimenting me during a meeting (her partner in crime having delivered the analysis and she knew that I knew, etc) I didn’t rip her head off and hand it back.

I’ve also been lax with my students. I don’t want to make my hard time their hard time and I’m going easy for no other reason than I feel like it. Deadlines? Eh. Homework? Eh. They talk too much? Eh. They stab Babar? I pop back to life.

In any case, I’m not ready to let her go and neither am I prepared. Anyone with any sense would prep a disaster plan or just have good running shoes or boxing gloves available.

Comments

[PhilosopherP]

I've lost both my father and my sister.... he was 48 and she was 30. I was 13 when my father died and 33 when my sister died. I was close to both of them.

The thing is, you don't stop being someone worthy of your Great-Grandma's love when she's no longer around to give it. When she dies, she'll no longer be able to give you new memories of her, but you'll still have the old memories.

She sounds like she's an old woman in the best way. She sounds wise, loving and very sweet. She's got to be tired of living without her husband -- she's been living without new memories of him for a long time.

When she dies, just understand that your sadness is for yourself and not for her. She's happy.

Because it is much easier to accept hurt yourself than to have someone you love hurting, when you realize your pain at her death is selfish pain, it becomes easier to deal with.

Take care --

[Rebekah]

I have a very pious friend who might enjoy reading about your great grandmother's faith. Could you drop me a note if it's OK for me to forward the link? - I know it's a public post, but I respect your family's privacy from people you don't know.

Losing someone you love so dearly hurts, which really isn't fair when you benefit so much from his or her presence. I have words of wisdom that would seem to be just words at this point; you have them in your heart, anyway.

[Margaret]

YOur sense of self, your history and memories are tied up in her. I don't blame you for worrying about this. I admire your love of and dedlcation to her.

[Suburban Island]

I never knew my great-grandparents. I wish I had the opportunity to know them as people. There really are not even any stories about them in the family lore.