The Birthday that Ends All Birthdays

Today is my maternal grandmother’s birthday. It will be her last. She has gone from dying by inches to dying by millimeters from cancer.

This morning the memory that has been most present in my mind is from a few months ago. I stand with my mom in the house where she grew up. We are in the middle bedroom looking down at a dress. My aunt has impeccable taste. The dress is absolutely beautiful. The dress is the palest pink of a cottage rose. As I stand there looking at that stunning dress, my heart clenches and my throat tightens. In my soul I know that the next time I see this dress, my grandmother will be wearing it at her funeral.

My grandmother is over 90. She is a fabulous cook. She is a skilled quilter, although in recent years she hasn’t been able to quilt as much due to failing eyesight and poor physical health. Although she and my grandfather were never rich, my grandparents found ways to share what they had with others less fortunate.

The most unfortunate part of my grandparents’ end of life is how it robbed them of what they loved most. My grandfather slowly got to the point where he could no longer even whittle all that much. My grandmother could no longer cook, quilt, read, or even talk on the telephone.

When I was little, my grandparents seemed impossibly old. As they were grandparents, they didn’t have a life as children or young adults. No, they sprang old with grandchildren from that place that all grandparents originate. We saw pictures of strangers with the same names and younger faces. Now that I am older, when I see the same pictures, my grandparents seem impossibly young and beautiful.

I have been blessed that my grandparents have lived as long as they have. I began to lose them in my 30’s. I have known them as a child and as an adult. I have been blessed to have so many good memories of time with them.

One of my favorite memories of my maternal grandparents as an adult is a trip to visit them over Easter weekend. I had stopped at the Target in Lexington to pick up a couple of things and decided to buy little baskets and candy for my grandparents. (They had candy time every afternoon.) I lay in the bedroom on Easter Sunday morning pretending to be asleep as I heard them getting up and around. I heard my grandmother say, “Look, Daddy, candy!” The dinning room chairs creaked and I heard them empty the baskets and compare their loot. I heard the happiness in their voices and I could imagine them as children. It has been the joy of this moment and others that have made it easier to face the inevitable.

Memory is akin to opening an oyster. Not all events rate a beautiful, fully formed pearl. I count myself lucky to have a string of opera pearls instead of a choker.