Four generations: My sister, her daughter, our mother, our grandmother
My grandmother (we called her Mama) died yesterday morning. She was in her 90s and had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for years. It was a snowy day yesterday, and she loved snowy days. The nurse who cared for her, a beloved figure in our family because of the care and respect she showed our grandmother, was with her when she passed. Mama had developed pneumonia, but in the last couple of days, peace had come over her.
I treasure the times we would go visit her in the nursing home (run by nuns, these ladies do not mess around – those nuns are awesome). It was a beautiful spot, and the people who worked there were kind and good.
But my memories of her go back to childhood, of course. My grandfather was a handsome strapping man, with thick black hair, and a wacko sense of humor. He would wear funny hats, with parrot beaks sticking out of them, or felt moose-horns emerging from the top. He would pile all 15 cousins (all of us under the age of 10) into his station wagon (no seat belts, we were all rolling around in the car completely unmoored, this was the 70s, people, we didn’t need no stinkin’ seat belts) and take us to the convenient store to buy “kenny pandy” as he called it. To us those short trips were as good as going to an amusement park. We looked forward to them all year. He was a big funny guy, and my grandmother was more sedate and elegant, but they made a great pair. She would play the piano as he accompanied her on the violin. A gorgeous couple. He died a long time ago. Yesterday on Facebook my cousin Lisa said, “It is a very sad day for us, but it is a very happy day for Grandpa …” and that’s when my tears came.
I grieved my grandmother a long time ago. We all had to let her go before she actually went. That’s the brutality of Alzheimer’s. But she is at peace now.
Mama and Grandpa had six children: Anne, my mother, Geraldine, Timothy, Kathleen, and Michael. My uncle Michael died in his 20s, and it was horrible. I was a kid. I can’t imagine what my grandmother went through with that.
She played the piano. She sang in the church choir. She did the crossword in pen (even the New York Times Saturday crossword). She was a stock wizard, buying up smart conservative stocks and sitting on them, letting them accumulate. She was a reader, an arts lover, she had a wonderful sense of humor. She had many grandkids, and we all had a personal relationship with her. She was always interested in what we were doing, and we would flood into her house on Thanksgiving and Easter, overwhelming it. Some of my first memories come from that house. She and my O’Malley grandmother got along famously. They “got” each other. There was no “horrible mother-in-law” narrative in my family dynamic.
We were so fortunate to have the grandparents that we did. They were loving and funny, involved and intelligent.
When we would convene on Mama’s house for Thanksgiving, Easter, Christmas, whatever, we would all go in the back door which opened up onto a brick patio. The house was on the side of a little hill, and so you’d open the back door, and the first thing you saw was the flight of steps leading up to the main floor where the kitchen and living room and den and everything else was. Down to the right was the basement, with a pool table. We were 9-year-old pool-sharks. The second you’d open that back door, Mama would appear at the top of the stairs, in her red turtleneck and plaid pants, or her navy blue skirt, always something color-coordinated and classy, maybe with an apron on, and she would see us appear, and clap her hands happily, laughing in excitement and welcome. I mentioned this memory on Facebook and my cousin Lisa said, “How did she manage to greet every single one of us that way?”
And so we all (and there are a lot of cousins) have the same memory of her.
Mama at the top of the stairs, laughing in excitement because we had arrived. I can hear that laugh now.
I’m so sorry for your loss. Your memories of your grandmother make it clear that she had an enormous capacity for love.
Thank you, Natalie. She was wonderful. It was very hard missing her while she was still alive. Alzheimer’s is so terrible. But she was cared for in a gentle environment, close to her family, who visited her all the time. She was loved. She was a wonderful woman and we will miss her very much!
//It was very hard missing her while she was still alive.//
I have had similar experiences – a lot of experts in the areas of grief and loss say that unresolved grief is often the hardest type to cope with, and a believe it. It’s wonderful that she was so well cared for and that your family remained so involved. It’s sadly rare. My mom works in an assisted living facility and has been horrified by how some of the residents are neglected by their families. I know your grandmother felt your love even when she didn’t know you were there.
// and has been horrified by how some of the residents are neglected by their families. //
That is so devastating to me.
We are a very musical family and we would go see my grandmother and it was like a jamboree, with my aunt playing the piano, and all of the care-givers wheeled in their charges so they could partake in the celebration. It was great, too, because all of the babies we would bring there – the babies brought so much joy to the people in the facility! Babies aren’t afraid! They reach out to touch, they hold out their hands – it was so good for ALL of us, young, old, middle-aged, to be together.
Although my grandmother wasn’t “in there”, in terms of the debilitations in her brain because of the disease, she was a human being, deserving of comfort and being cared for. She was still HER. We are so grateful for the nuns and the nurses who were there for her these last 10 years. Who did her hair for her, and brought her outside into the garden, and played music for her. These people are doing such important work and we love them.
// I know your grandmother felt your love even when she didn’t know you were there. //
Natalie – I hope so!!! it was so painful!
Like the woman in the background in that picture. We do not know who she is. She is not a member of our family. When we would arrive, it was an entourage – I have, like, 20 cousins, and everyone has babies, and we would all just come in together – and it would be noisy and joyful – and the people who worked there would bring everybody into the room to share in the joy. That woman back there was basically hugging herself in happiness – because we were all happy and there were babies there too and it made her happy. It brings tears to my eyes.
Also, amazingly: we would sing old songs, like “You Are my Sunshine” and “Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet” – and some of these people, suffering from memory loss, knew all the words. It was the songs they sang in their youth.
You have my condolences. It’s a wonderful blessing to have so many happy memories of a beloved family member, I’m sure they are a comfort.
It is a blessing. She led a full long life. My sister posted a picture on FB of all of us cousins together – there are over 20 of us – and she wrote: “This is the clan you created, Mama.”
It’s monumental.
Very sorry for your loss.
I’m told that the key for this kind of funeral – where someone was already somewhat lost to you beforehand – is to get a lot of people together telling stories about them from their golden prime. If you really get people talking, they can go out in a blaze of glory that can help eclipse some of the more difficult recent memories. Not that my family did this with my aunt who died in December. My cousin, her only child, was a little too weary for it, after three years of not being recognized by his own mother.
Anne – so sorry about your aunt, and so sorry for your cousin. Alzheimer’s is so cruel. I don’t know how my mother bore it, but she did.
We’ve been sharing Mama stories on Facebook. Over the years, this or that cousin – or my sister – roomed with Mama, while they were going to school in Boston, and wanted to save money or whatever. They all have great stories, just of hanging out with Mama, everyday stuff the rest of us don’t share. My cousin Ken was like, “I have picked up habits from when I roomed with Mama. I still freeze bread like she used to do. And I still buy ginger ale in the can.”
Details! She always had ginger ale in cans in the fridge.
I have some of her cookware, chunky beautiful stuff that I can see in pictures from before I was born – on the table for a picnic or whatever. I love that I have it. I cooked a meal in one of the baking dishes last night!
She has one sibling left, my Great-Aunt Joan, also in her 90s – an incredible woman, still sharp as a tack. I have been thinking about Joan a lot today.
Thanks. That’s great about everyone sharing stories. And yes, details particularly. I love the ginger ale in cans!
I may have told a story or two about this aunt, back in the day. She’s the one who married an Italian. There were a lot of great stories of their adventures driving around Northern Ireland in a tiny Fiat. All the light seemed to go out for her, once my uncle died. She was just never the same. As you say, it’s nice to think of her reunited with Sergio, somewhere.
Oh yes, I remember your stories about that couple. The Fiat in Northern Ireland. Wonderful.
and yes – I had totally forgotten about the ginger ale in cans until my cousin Ken mentioned it. Her whole kitchen just popped up into view!
So sorry for your loss, Sheila! Thoughts and prayers with you and your family.
One of my aunts passed away suddenly last night, aged 66. I found out just before school started this morning. To their credit, my students were good as gold (and better) today. Human kindness is truly remarkable, isn’t it?
Thank you, rae- and I’m sorry for your loss.
Sorry about Mama. As I’m sure you discussed with your siblings and cousins, They don’t make’em like that anymore do they? I’m not just using that cliche, I always think to myself when I see a person of that age passing, the things they lived through, the sacrifices made. May she rest in peace.
Thank you, Dg!
Yes – 95 years old. My God. And in perfect health until the Alzheimer’s came.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Sheila. I love thinking about the joy your family must have brought to that nursing home. The picture of the woman in the background, absolutely beaming in joy, looking at your family-incredible.
The memories you have of your Mama, are so very sweet. How lucky you were to have such a loving grandma-I speak as someone who knows, my own grandmother was absolutely amazing, and I miss her every single day. I remember the same thing you mentioned, the joy and pride she took in all of us-I don’t think there is anything like that kind of unconditional love. It is like a bedrock of security-to be loved like that.
Rae-I am so sorry about your aunt. Only 66? That is way too young.
Maureen – I smiled at the description of your grandmother. So lucky to have someone like that in your life.
Mama was my last living grandparent.
I’m very sorry for your loss, Sheila. Alzheimer’s is a damnable disease–it often robs a person of most of what made them who they were well before it finally kills them, and is such a burden on those of us who love them. Having strong, beautiful memories, as you do, is a blessing.
Thank you, DBW.
The years of Alzheimer’s has vanished since she passed – and now we are all talking about her from Before, before it descended upon her. It’s been so beautiful hearing everyone’s memories.
My cousin Susan took pictures of a recipe for pineapple cookies that Mama had written out for her – shared it on Facebook – and every single one of us were just blown away by seeing her handwriting. We all haven’t seen it in years – but she was a card-sender, a letter-writer – you’d get a little check on your birthday (every single one of us would!) – and her handwriting was so known, so familiar … It was really moving to see it again.
I’m very sorry for your loss Sheila. And thank you for sharing your memories – I was reminded how much I still miss, and love, my own grandparents.
Thank you so much, Dan!!
Dear Sheila,
I am so sorry to read about your loss. Grandparents are so precious.
I hope it is some comfort to know that what you have written here, you, and your whole family, are a beautiful tribute to her.
//These people are doing such important work and we love them.//
Absolute truth.
Thank you so much, Heather!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uePYntEs7V4
Goosebumps. Thank you.
I’m sorry to hear of your Grandmother’s passing, Sheila. She sounds like an incredible woman. My own grandmothers also got along very well, without in-law drama. They were both gone by the time I was in my early twenties. They were complicated women – and frankly much better grandmothers than they were mothers – but I’m glad I had the time to get to know them. I’m named for both of them, actually. My Mom has a great picture of them sitting together at the kitchen table, smoking their cigarettes and giving the camera a huge side-eye.
That lady in the background of the picture is just killing me, she looks so happy.
// My Mom has a great picture of them sitting together at the kitchen table, smoking their cigarettes and giving the camera a huge side-eye.
//
Desirae – ha! That is great!!
Although late Sheila, I wish you strength to pull through this moment. It’s so sad sometimes that we sometimes aren’t able to cherish our dearly loved ones, especially the old, like we’d want too. It’s so strange that whenever they pass away, we always go back to those “little things”, those brief moments that end up being treasures, just the mere thought of it awakes all these feelings, it’s beautiful!
Love, Johnny.
Thank you so much, Johnny!