Bidding adieu to a much-beloved grandmother

My college girlfriends and I get together once a year: no husbands, kids or pets allowed. This year we met up in Indian Wells, a desert town two hours away from my home in San Diego. I slept so deeply that weekend – a blissful slumber one experiences only when one’s kids are 190 miles away.

On Sunday morning I was startled awake shortly after sunrise by my cellphone’s melodic chirping. Even before I looked at the caller ID, I knew who was calling and why.

It was my husband. “Sorry to call so early,” he said quietly. “Your grandma’s in the hospital.”

My grandma was 96 so I can’t say I was surprised. On one hand, I had been expecting this call. But she was so spry I also sort of expected her to live another 15 years. With shaking hands I packed up my clothes, hugged my girlfriends goodbye, climbed into the car and headed west toward Los Angeles.

One thing about my grandma you should know: She loved her people and everybody loved her. It was 10 in the morning, and her hospital room was packed with my aunts, uncles and cousins.

“Hey, look who’s here,” my uncle crowed. “Mom, Gillian’s here.”

I walked over to my grandma’s bed, picked up her hand and told her she looked foxy even in a hospital gown. Writhing in pain, she asked for water. As I held the straw to her lips I thought: This is a woman who changed my diapers. This is a woman who has brought so much comfort, not only to me, but to countless friends and relatives. This simple act, giving her a moment of comfort, is one that I will be forever thankful.

She opened her eyes and squeezed my hand. “Goodbye, honey,” she said. Here was my grandma, just a few weeks before so vibrant and full of life, telling me goodbye.

As relatives continued to stream in and out of the room, we told stories, sometimes laughing through our tears as we recalled something funny my grandma said or did over the years. Even though she was unconscious, the corners of her mouth would turn up ever so slightly during these moments. She still had her sense of humor.

My parents and I stayed with her into the night, well after visiting hours had ended. The next morning we returned, running into my uncle in the hallway near my grandma’s room. He told us she passed away around 8 in the morning. I looked at the clock: 8:12.

Later that day, as I drove up the hill to my house, I noticed our street was lined with garbage cans. Huh, that’s weird, I thought. Then I remembered: It was Monday. Monday is trash day in my neighborhood. Even though my grandma’s life had ended earlier that morning, the world still kept turning. The garbage trucks still rumbled up the street.

It’s been two weeks since my grandma passed. The first few days I was a complete basket case, my eyes so swollen and red I looked like I’d been beaten within an inch of my life. As my world went on without my grandma, I became less of a tear-stained mess but the smallest things would re-open the floodgates: the grainy feel of her wooden spoon in my hand or the earthy-sweet aroma of garlic simmering on the stove.

I’d remember the songs she would sing to me, even as an adult. She would pat her floral-and-wicker sofa and croon “Red River Valley”: “Come and sit by my side if you love me ...”

She never sang the rest of the lyrics, so I looked them up online. “Come and sit by my side if you love me / Do not hasten to bid me adieu / Just remember the Red River Valley / And the cowboy who loved you so true.” Of course, in my head I swapped “grandma” for “cowboy.”

I’m writing this in a public space, feeling people steal glances at me as I wipe my sleeve across my eyes. Time heals all wounds, they say. Until then I’m stocking up on waterproof mascara.

Gillian Van Cooney recently moved from University Place to San Diego, Calif., with her husband, two preschoolers, dog and cat. She is one of six reader columnists whose work appears in this space.