Holding Her Close and Remembering

One week ago today I was wearing the same brown dress, the same brown sandals and the same tear stained look I've worn way too much over the past 75 days. And I was, once again, for the third time, carrying the casket of one of my grandparents and laying it inside a hearse. 

Grandma Millie had gotten pneumonia back in November. She hadn't felt well in quite some time before that and she'd moved into an assisted care facility shortly before. She never really recovered fully from this last illness. She talked being done with life, being in pain, being unhappy. She hadn't golfed in years, she couldn't drive anymore. Yes, she still played cards with the girls and sent cards to us grandkids and laughed and complained about sports. But she was ready to pack it in and go see Grandpa. So this summer, when she entered hospice care, we knew the end would come sooner rather than later. 

Last week that end came. And as Angela and I boarded our forth flight to Detroit since June, I thought about the fact that I no longer have any grandparents. For a girl who grew up with six grandparents (and a slew of family friends we called grandparents), this is going to be quite a change. 

First Lieutenant Mildred Ludwig of the United States Army, 1945

Grandma lived a whole other life before any of us still alive knew her. She was a Registered Nurse in the United States Army at the end of World War II. She accompanied war brides home on ships. She traveled. She worked as a nurse until 1993. She married my grandfather in a ceremony in a place no one can quite identify. It was my grandfather's third wedding, her first and only. With that marriage she gained two stepsons (my Dad and my uncle Terry). And then she would go on to have two more children later in life (my aunt Gloria and my uncle Rich).

I didn't spend as much time with Grandma Millie as I did with my other grandparents. She lived in Lansing, almost an hour's drive from us, and it was usually birthdays, holidays and special occasions that brought us together. Those were good times, yes. It just wasn't as frequent as I saw the others. When we would get together there would usually be pork roast or turkey, everyone gathered around the table, a football or basketball or golf game playing in the background on the television. Inevitably, Uncle Rich would pull out the big five-quart container of vanilla ice cream after dinner even if we were all stuffed. The cards would find their way to the center of the table and we'd play and laugh and talk late into the night. We'd settle in and it felt like we'd always been there. I loved that.

I also loved how much she supported what us grandkids did. She was always the first to send a birthday card or give a Christmas gift with a little something to help us on our way. I don't remember a lot about the State Finals I played in my senior year of high school but I do remember Grandma and Grandpa finding me in the parking lot of the golf course at MSU and her handing me a box. Inside were little golf golf bag earrings that she had me put on right there for luck. I wore those earrings last Monday.

My dad was technically Millie's stepson. We were technically her step grandchildren. But not once do I ever remember her saying this or insinuating this. We were hers. We were loved and cared for just as much as the others. We were never forgotten. The same can be said of her. I send a lot of letters and cards, and this morning, I thought about my list. It has dwindled dramatically this summer. I thought about how much I'll miss seeing her smile and getting a big old bear hug from her when I go home to Michigan to visit. But, more than anything, I know she's much happier now. I know she's feeling better and in no pain and with grandpa and her beloved brother, Ed.

However, I also know that life is different now. This Christmas when I go home, there will be no grandparents to visit or wrap presents for. There will be no wine or Hot Damn or golf shirts to buy for Grandma Millie. There will be no bubble bath to buy for Grandma Bette. There will be no Moose Munch or snacks to buy for Grandpa Jim. But that doesn't mean they're forgotten. That doesn't mean that we can't remember. We can look through photo albums and laugh over stories at Christmas dinner. We can hold them close. And I will. So close. Just as they held me close for the past 35 years.