Baggage

We thought we were prepared. My Grandmother was a victim of Alzheimer’s for five long years. She’d been moved from assisted living to the nursing home after it was decided she needed additional care. Now the time had come for us to say our final goodbyes. The family visited the night before she passed; sitting around telling stories to the empty shell of a woman we loved.

We hated the disease, hated that it had taken everything away from her. The laugh, the importance of family, the strange dance she did when you left her house, and the wonderful food she prepared.

Her own home had been sold years earlier to pay for the needed move to the assisted living facility. The precious keepsakes she’d collected over the years found homes with various members of the family. Antiques were divided up and what was left over went to auction. She had enough to live the rest of her days with the best possible care.

On the day she died, my mother was tending to the necessary tasks associated with the death of a loved one. I offered to go to the nursing home and collect Gram’s belongings, hoping to ease her burden.

As I entered the building, several of the aides came up to talk to me about my Grandmother. They’d known her since she first came to the facility and couldn’t help but share stories about her wonderful spirit. One laughed, mentioning that on Wednesday mornings Grams was the first in line for her weekly hair appointment and perm. She was always a strong woman with strong opinions, but even that was something the nurses would smile at and gently shake their heads.

I walked into her empty room. The bedclothes had been washed and placed in a large black trash bag. Her clothes and toiletries were carefully tucked into her battered light blue suitcase. I looked around the room. This was all that was left.

A lifetime put into a trash bag and a suitcase.

Tears stung my eyes as I lifted the containers to leave. An aide stepped in to see if she could help. I held up the luggage and said, “No, I’ve got it. This is all that’s left.”

“And her spirit.”

“Her spirit?” I asked.

“These are just things,” she said, pointing to the bags. “Her spirit, your memories. Those are the important things that will be with you for a lifetime.”

The bags felt lighter as I left. The woman was right, these were just things. What my Grandmother had left us was worth more than anything one could buy, worth more than earthly goods.

When I got home I walked in and my family asked, “Is that all there is?”

And I answered, “No, not at all.”

What Should I Say

I was talking to a friend the other day that had recently lost her mother. She kept saying, “It just feels weird, I can’t explain the feeling.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about. Sixteen years ago I lost my Dad. He was the hero you read about, the guy that stands up for injustice and believed in helping those less fortunate. He had a good time wherever he went and I felt pride when people would say, you look just like your mom but act just like your dad. He wasn’t perfect, he was human.

But when he died I remember walking around and the strangest feeling would come over me. Then one day I realized how it felt. It was as if something had been amputated. A limb had been snatched from somewhere deep in my being. I’d feel it there at brief moments, possibly like an amputee might still feel their missing appendage. But then it would be gone.

I tried to explain this feeling to my friend and a look of understanding crept across her face. “People,” she said, “kept telling me it was a blessing as Mother had Alzheimer’s. But losing her feels like anything but a blessing.”

Maybe it was because of all my years working at a Ronald McDonald type house. I sat with a Mother during organ donation procedure before taking her child off life support. I helped plan a funeral for an infant and sat with parents while we waited for oncology reports. People don’t want to hear, it was a blessing or that it was God’s plan. They want to hear that you’re sorry and understand, but mostly they want to tell you about their loved one, share experiences and memories.

So I sat with my friend as she reminisced. I told her you will always miss that part of your life. I talk to Dad every day, usually when I’m out in the yard or doing some home improvement activity. When I see something he would love, an incredible sunset or just beautiful wildflowers by the side of the road. It helps keep him in the special little place in my heart, tucked in safe and sound, protected from the pain. He’s my biggest fan and most brilliant critic. And he is always with me.