My Grandmother is dying.
She has had severe dementia for some time now, and in some ways she was already leaving. She was able to be happy, but she did not know her family, or remember much outside the moment. She still has her love of music, and her kind and outgoing nature, but she was unmoored from her life
I began writing this in December of 2018. I stopped when I got the call that my Grandma was gone. I had seen her earlier that day, and had felt her soul expanding out from her body, wrapping around me, somehow utterly comforting, despite her unconscious body laboring in its last breaths in front of me. The body that fought as hard as it could, for as long as it could. The body that had carried her from Northern Sweden to Colorado, through a life that anyone could be proud of.
I was the first of my family to get to the room where her body lay. I was able to wail out pain, but it was not enough. I don’t know that it ever will be.
Over the past three years, I have lost so many. Five friends, both ex-stepparents, my cat, my Grandma. I have lived in grief, gotten so used to it that I barely remember what the world looks like without that lens. It’s a lot.
I have finally ended my marriage, but we still live together for now, because he still does not have a job. He did graduate from college, and I am proud of him for that. I am trying to unlearn being his caretaker, and it’s very hard when we share such a small space. I am finally seeing stories in my head again, and today I am writing more than I have in a very long time. I am struggling awake, finally, and I feel like I have just realized that I was buried alive in the night. Waking up blind and disoriented, knowing there is a weight you must claw through -is it six feet or two feet to daylight?
I can almost see it.