Today, December 8, is the 5th anniversary of my grandmother's death. I spent it alone, hiking in the local reservoir, reminiscing and remembering the woman I loved very much.
My grandmother was a difficult, complicated person, a force of nature. To me, she was formidable and solid, an authority that you never questioned. She didn't knit, tell bedtime stories, or waited for us to come home from school, but she made the best ever cranberry-infused vodka and chocolate cake.
You would never dare to call her "granny", "grandma" or "nana". She was GRANDMOTHER, and that was all.
Her life was not easy; she was born in the 20s, lived through World War II. On one of my last visits after her death, my mom and I read the diary that Grandmother kept during that time. It was haunting. One of the most powerful entries read "The Germans are bombing us; I have to get home somehow because I want to die with my mother". She was 18 at the time. I often think of that line and how it must have shaped her.
One of her friends brought her a rhino's hide from Africa, and she custom-ordered a coat: it was thick, unbendable and showed no signs of wear and tear for decades. If I close my eyes, I can still picture her coming home from work: purse, grocery bag, grey knitted beret and that leather coat.
She loved being the medical examiner. When I was a teen, she would spend hours sitting at the kitchen table with my girlfriends, telling us stories about her conquests, professional and personal.
She had a complicated relationship with my mother, her only child, but she loved me. She loved my brother too, but our bond was special. I miss her optimism and her guidance sometimes, and wonder what would she think about me now: would she be proud? Disappointed? Happy for me?
Her last years were marred by a battle with dementia and I couldn't be there for her. I chickened out, removed myself because it was too painful to watch the independent, sharp person turn into an angry, confused shell of her former self. I wish I was kinder, I wish I visited more, I wish I spent time with her and gave her an opportunity to see her great-granddaughters.
The day before her death from heart failure, my brother dropped her off at the hospital because she had some heart palpitations. She passed away in her sleep sometime during the night, and the nurses discovered she was gone during the early rounds.
Her last words to my brother before he left were "make sure you bring me my makeup bag in the morning".
