My grandmother is dying.
When she passes, she will leave my father an orphan, joining my mother who's been an orphan for 23 years. The "next line of defense" will have passed on, ushering my parents one step closer to eternity.
Ushering me one step closer.
Gram, as I call her, has been suffering. Her 89-year-old, weak body has been starved to the point that it has begun to eat itself, leaving her at 70 pounds. She has a bit of dementia, and when she looks at a photo of my grandfather and her, she claims that she knows them but can't quite place who they are.
When I saw her the week before Christmas, she still knew me. I held her cup of sweet tea as she sipped it and gently rubbed her hands and silently prayed that she wouldn't linger.
Death is a terrible reality. And we can do absolutely nothing to stop it. We can only sit by helplessly and watch it speed up the clock, as the future becomes the present, which too quickly becomes the past.
When Gram leaves this earth, everything for those who remain behind will change. The home I used to visit from childhood until two weeks ago will be sold to another. Gram's sharp wit will be quieted. The plethora of her pig collection will be sold or given away or trashed. We'll be left only with memories.
Penn Jillette of Penn & Teller fame wrote of his mother's death and the grief that accompanies it: "The difference between joyous crying and sad crying is only for the young. . . . I'm old enough to know that I'll never again really know why I'm crying. . . . I could make [my mom] laugh. I could make her laugh harder than anyone in the world had ever made her laugh. You tell me, am I crying now with sadness or joy?"1