Time clock of the heart

Thirteen years ago, my life irrevocably changed. On the 4th of July, my grandmother suffered a devastating stroke, that left her paralyzed on one side, barely able to speak and unable to swallow. The prognosis for any chance at recovery was non-existent-the doctors told us (and her) that miracles more than likely would not happen for her. Day after day, I sat at her bedside-first in the hospital, then in rehab, and finally in the nursing home. She steadily declined and entered hospice care. When she finally died on August 30th, a little bit of me died along with her.
My grandmother was my primary caregiver growing up. My mother worked in NYC, and would leave before I got up in the morning and got home after I went to bed at night. As I got older, my grandmother transitioned from caregiver to bud. We went on a lot of great adventures together. From the Great Wall of China to scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef, Grandma was there. When we drove through the Arizona desert with no water, it was Grandma behind the wheel. We toured Europe, the Far East, Down Under, and all across the USA. I got my sense of wanderlust from her, I think.
Thirteen years ago, I was watching the opening night of the US Open. Grandma was a tennis fanatic. Some people scream at the TV during football or baseball games, Grandma did it during tennis matches. She was unconscious at that point. Agassi-who she despised-was playing that night in the marquee match. Maybe it was good she wasn’t able to watch, but I will never know that. I was holding her hand, and her breathing became more labored. I began to sing Amazing Grace, her favorite hymn, as the angels opened the gates of heaven to her.
I was honored to sing her home.
Later that evening, the rector of my church, who later celebrated my marriage came to Merwick and surrounded my family and I with love. My sister, then the same age as my son is now, was in the day room watching a League of their Own. Leslie, my pastor, stayed with us as the doctor pronounced her sloughing off this mortal coil. He stayed with us as the funeral home came and took her remains away. He stayed with us when we went to Denny’s (the only child friendly place still open and nearby) for coffee and a snack since I had not eaten anything from lunch time that day. For the next few days, I was surrounded by love from friends, family and most of all, my church. My grandmother’s beloved confessor and preferred minister cut short a vacation in Maine to come home for her viewing and presided over her funeral.
A little bit of me died with her that day. All my life up to that point, we celebrated our birthdays together in a joint blow out. We both took birthday celebrations quite seriously and went all out. Her birthday was May 30th, Decoration Day, so she always joked that her birthday was truly a national holiday. Since she died, birthdays aren’t quite the same anymore. I used to love the 4th of July, and would go all out with food and drinks to celebrate independence. I loved the fireworks and parades and all such wonderful acroutrements. Since she had her stroke that day, its not the same. As is the end of August. With all the back to school hoopla is done, and we are tail dragging into labor day, ushering in fall, it is a sad time to start with. The summer is waning, the nights are getting shorter, and the darkness lingers longer. Even today, that time from midpoint of the summer (July 4th) till today is a blur. I never quite know where the time goes. Sometimes, in my dreams, I find myself at her beside, working on my thesis exploring the feminist divine vs. the Bible. Type type type on the laptop. Talking to my grandmother, reading her my paper as she served as my silent editor. Helping the nurses turn her in bed, bathing her as she did to me when I was helpless. Feeding her the thickened foods she despised, as she fed me as a child. Helping her in the therapy room, being her cheerleader as she had done for me for 29 years. Encouraging her to try, try and try because she could do it.
Only she couldn’t.
Her body was battered and tired after 80+ years of living. She had buried her parents, her siblings and a daughter at that point. Her heart was weakened by disease. A pacemaker helped in beat in rhythm.
In my dreams, she rises up from the bed, triumphant. A phoenix, reborn healthy, whole and new, she is healed.
Then I awaken, remembering its been 13 years since I sat at her bedside. Merwick is barely existing now. I no longer live in Princeton. I am married, a mother and more now. My sister is an adult. I still hate the 4th of July, nachos and margaritas (what we were snacking on as she had her stroke), and the end of the summer. I can’t watch tennis anymore, especially the US Open. And Amazing Grace sends me into teary histrionics still.
They say time heals all wounds. I am still waiting.