Woke up this morning wide awake, and ready to face what laid ahead. As I began to really wake up, I started to get the mopes. (That’s what I call it anyway.)
I am working through this process called grief. I was never angry at my grandmother. She never asked to be the victim of a stroke. (Sorry. I won’t go into details.) I can be mad at the stroke, but that would be ridiculous. I am not selfish enough to think that she left me; nor am I angry enough think she abandoned me. She didn’t. She never would.
I was never in denial. From the time I heard that she had the stroke and the severity of it, I had a feeling that she wouldn’t make a miraculous recovery. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t all gloom and doom. I just approached it from the point of view of a realist.
I went to see her because I adore here. (I didn’t use past tense on purpose.) I also know that, when people know it’s their turn to go, they have a list of loved ones they wish to see before they take their last nap.
What will miss most is the care packages which have her hand written addresses, her phone calls asking for a family update, her calling me on my birthday, and having one less loved one to call on Mother’s Day (That is going to be when it hits me the hardest.).