Pain and Passing

Sometimes I can write about it; sometimes I can only live it.

When the living requires so much of my strength, I have nothing left over for the demands of the words. And that is sad. Because the words help make everything else make sense.

It's been one week and one day since my grandfather died. Just a few days, really. Before, I was worried about my dad and my child. Not so today. Jimmy and Miles are going to be just fine. The elder was more prepared than I knew, and the younger is more resilient than I guessed. My grandmother, though -- she's hard hit.

...Why did I not see that coming?

She had the very most time with PawPaw. The most adventures. Received and gave the most understanding. They had a good long run on the stage of life. And, lately, Dot knew how horrible it was for him to be infirmed. How very wrong, how antithetical to the man, to be truly aged. To feel less.

That's what I see, anyway. That they made a good life, for a good long time, and that now he has a better one. "I have come that they may have life and have it more abundantly" (John 10). Now he's not sick, or old, or damaged, any more! Meanwhile, she seems to have contracted a heart disease no one can fully diagnose or treat. It appears to hurt with every breath.

"This, too, shall pass. I suppose," she said to me yesterday.

I hope so. I guess, in a way, I hope I can feel the depth of grief she feels now, as a sign of how very much I have loved if I am left after the end of my husband's life. I want to relate to her sadness and struggle. I want to be sensitive and understanding and to accept her grief. But I don't want her to keep mentioning death as the only antidote to it. I hope this acute pain does pass, in time, so that she may breathe easier for all the days she has left on earth.

I miss them together. But I'd miss her more if she gave up now.