Reflection of Grace

We don’t REALLY think about life, until we have some connection to death. Only then do we REALLY tell ourselves things like “Life is short”, “Tomorrow isn’t promised”, “Call your loved ones”, etc. etc. This is no fault of our own – it’s simply human nature. We get lost in the mundane monotony of everyday life and we forget that “what only happens to other people” can also, in fact, happen to us. It’s very difficult to understand when it feels so far removed, and to put it very simply, we just don’t understand it until we experience it.

On May 11^th, I experienced the veil parting. The veil that separates this life from the next. I held my Mamere’s hand and I counted the seconds between each breath as her breathing became quieter and more spaced apart. My heart sank as I knew the end was coming any minute and I was about to witness it with my very own eyes. I watched as she exhaled her final breath and it was in that moment that I truly sensed Jesus on the other side, standing in Heaven’s foyer, welcoming her to be made whole again. As my mom, my aunt, mamere’s sweetest caregiver, her wonderful hospice nurse, and myself spent the day at her bedside, we prayed that there was a faint amount of her mind that was with us for just a moment to know that she wasn’t alone.

Grandparents are TRULY something special. It is not lost on me how so very lucky I was to have her for 30 years of my life. Her and my sweet Poppy were pivotal in my upbringing and so much of who I am, I owe to them. They were so much more than grandparents to me.  Their home holds the memories of my childhood and so many memories that have carried me well into adulthood.  Before it was filled with hospital beds, hospice nurses and chaplains, it was filled with the smell of a home cooked meal, an open-door policy, the invitation to take anything and everything you need, and a loving “Hi, Kiker!” that always made the weight of the world disappear. It was my home away from home, and it had nothing to do with the home and its contents, but everything to do with who filled it.

Mamere was unlike anyone I have ever known. She was a woman of few words, unless she felt very strongly about something, she was tough as nails, she was rough around the edges in her own special way, she fiercely loved her family, she hand-made every card she ever gave, she didn’t like to lose, she always stood in the corners of her children and grandchilren, she could whip up something in the kitchen out of NOTHING (I still don’t get it), and her house was a Mary Poppins bag…if you needed it, she had it, and she WANTED to share it with you. She worked hard and devoted her life to being a speech-language pathologist, and she always quietly GOT SH*% DONE. She needed no recognition, would never ask for help, and never ever complained. She was from a generation that thinks differently, works harder, expects no handouts, and remains humble. She was the epitome of strength, a damn good friend, and she was our family safe space. Her will to live was strong.

There are moments that shape us an individual’s – that undoubtedly change us.  The first is when I watched life enter into this world, and the second is when I watched it leave.  I truly believe with all that I am, that life and death are a lot more similar than we make them out to be.  One is anticipated, celebrated, and yearned for…while the other often brings feelings of helplessness, fear and mourning. But, together, they share the gift of PERSPECTIVE. There is a very thin line that connects the two, and you simply can’t have one without the other.  Death makes us painfully aware of just how short life is – there is just NEVER enough time. So, whether it be the first 5 minutes I got with Avery, or the last 5 minutes I got with Mamere, I caught myself doing the very same thing – closely examining and memorizing every facial feature so it is forever embedded in my memory.

It has taken me 3 months to write this, because it has taken me this long to process it and to decide how to honor her moving forward. If there is anything I have learned, it’s that grief takes time to process, and the way you move forward in life will be JUST THAT: the way YOU move forward. You owe no one an explanation, and however you decide to move forward is your own story to tell (or not). I know that Mamere would want us to accomplish our goals, experience happiness and joy, spend time together as a family, and make the most of the life that we have left.  She knows all too well that this is our temporary home and this life is fleeting. It doesn’t matter if you are young or old, rich or poor, good or bad, ready or not…death comes for us all. This realization brought a clarity I had not yet recognized before. So, I choose to honor her in that way – celebrating who she was, how she lived, and those she loved. Grieving her is a privelege I do not take for granted. It is living proof of a life loved. It has opened me up to something that is much greater than myself and made space for a new perspective on life – more empathy, more appreciation, more love, more presence.

I find so much peace that she is no longer bound by the confines of the physical and mental effects of Parkinson’s Disease, and I will spend the rest of my life being the biggest advocate for Parkinson’s patients.

Mamere held my hand on the day I came into this world, and I held hers on the day she left. It was the honor of my life.

Our goodbye was her hello. Our loss is Heaven’s gain. Until we meet again, we will talk about her and honor her for the rest of our days.