Nana ~

My nana died last Friday evening. She was 94 years old. Her name was Helen May.

I was given her middle name ("Kathryn May" means I'm in trouble), I wear a sterling silver bracelet that is engraved with her monogram as a single woman in the 1930s, and I possess the memories of a sweet connection with her the past few years of her life.

Many of the grandparents and great-grands in my family tree have lived well into their 90s. There's a running gag among us now ~ we're not photogenic, we have lousy metabolism, but, geez, we live forever. Well, not forever, I guess.

As grandparents go, at least the ones I was most accustomed to in my childhood, nana was, well, a tiny bit scandalous. She had a liquor cabinet in her house that I was fascinated by as a child. We'd visit her on Saturday afternoons and she would offer us "hi-balls". She'd pour cold Pepsi into gin glasses and I'd sip my drink as she sipped hers, and I'd feel fancy and naughty at the same time. She had a limited supply of tolerance, oh, on just about any topic. A roll of her eyes, a "sheesh", a smirk, that was her expressed opinion on countless matters. Any funky smell was "bad enough to knock a buzzard off a gut-wagon", and any child age 12 or below who was in her eyesight was "a farmer". She was, how can I put this, bossy. Its quite possible that the first "dammit" I ever heard came out of her mouth.

For most of my childhood, she lived a thousand miles away for most of the year. When the Southern California sun could not be tamed by the pool or the shade of the orange grove, she'd pack up her Cadillac and head north. This went on for years. I'd not see her for months, and then, when she'd lay eyes on me on that first visit of the summer, her first words to me would invariably be, "you need to lose weight", followed immediately by "can I make you a sandwich?"

She was tan and fit, she golfed and traveled. She met "the girls" for bridge at the club. She square danced. She bought handbags bejeweled with designs of peacocks, of flowers. She was a classically trained pianist. She buried two husbands and suffered the betrayal of a son. She kept coffee cans full of the nickels she won playing bingo, she got reprimanded once for pushing and shoving to get on the senior-center activity bus, and she kept a tissue in the pocket of every sweater she owned.

She began to fail several months ago. There was a fall, there was the confusion, and then there was the diagnosis that gave us a hint as to how her life might end.

The past few years, the past few months, have been especially poignant. Watching my mom care for this woman has been a revelation to me, truly, she has revealed to me how it is that one cares for an aging, dying parent. My nana has not been easy to love, as nanas go. She's held firmly to a reluctance toward sentiment, toward expressions of tenderness, a reservation, perhaps an inability to demonstrate, to speak what simply needs to be spoken. And yet, my mom has loved her, has tended to her with compassion and faithfulness and grace.

A few months ago, with nana deep into dementia, mom sat beside her bed, held her hand, and spoke gently to her. "Mom, do you know who I am?", she asked. Nana, who for months had confused my mom with a half-dozen dead relatives, looked her right in the eye, and said "yes, you're my little baby girl." I got to witness that moment, and I will never forget it. I believe it was a cup of cold water offered to my mom's thirsty heart. Offered, not really by nana, but by God, who has watched my mom's faithfulness all her life and knew that refreshment was needed.

There were late-night calls the last week of her life, calls to tell us that it was time to say goodbye. We kissed her, we stroked her hair, we pressed our lips to her ear and told her that she was loved, by us, by God, that she was safe, that she didn't have to worry, that we'd be alright, that she could go. She spoke gibberish for most of the visit, and we cried as we listened to her painful efforts to breathe. My mom held her hand and told her stories from her own childhood, reminded her of scenes that are as vivid to her today as they were sixty-plus years ago. Nana opened her eyes at one point and said clearly, "please hold me, please hold me."

A few moments later, she was fighting with the nurses who were taking care of her in the bathroom, insisting that no one needs more than 3 squares of toilet paper. I heard that "dammit" again. Vintage nana.

Geez, my family, we live forever. Well, not forever, not now, not here. Someday, somewhere else.

Prayers were answered Friday night. Mom's prayer for nana to finally, peacefully, let go. Nana's prayer to be held. After 94 years of reluctance and reservation, I can only believe that, at last, she is letting herself love.

But don't get me wrong, nana's nana. She's bossing somebody around.