Losing Nana

Yesterday was my grandmother's 85th birthday. I had wanted to visit her then, but I didn't want to bring the boys with me and chance spreading their strep infections. So today, with Tab home to watch the boys, I headed out to Nana's house.

I stopped first to pick up milk and a few other groceries for Rita, who still hasn't replaced the car Sarah totaled a few months ago. On the bright side, Sarah finally moved out a few days ago, putting an end to that unpleasant family situation.

Nana was dressed and sitting up in her armchair by the window when I arrived. I'm always glad to find her up instead of lying in the hospital bed downstairs. When she is in her chair, it is easier to think of her as the active, vital woman I once knew instead of the frail shadow she has become.

Oh, God, it is so hard to write this. I wanted to write about my visit, but even more, I wanted to write about who Nana was and what she has meant to me. Because she is not that person anymore. At least, not most of the time. Her periods of lucidity are becoming fewer and further between.

She smiles radiantly when I greet her. "My first grandchild," she says, and holds my hand, but then she fades back into her own interior world. It is like she is on a boat drifting further and further out to sea. Sometimes, a trick of wind or tide brings her closer to us on shore, but I know she is heading away. Away from us who love her.

I can't stop crying. Losing someone this way sucks.

Two years ago, I wrote Nana a letter telling her just how much I loved her. I'm glad I gave it to her back when she still had all her faculties. Rita told me that Nana treasured that letter, re-reading it many times.

If you love someone, let that person know. Today. Today may be all you have.

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