Life & Death: Celebration in the Face of Loss

Today is my 12-year anniversary with my husband Cory. I remember when I was younger, I prayed that my grandma would live to see me get married. She battled MS all my life, and when I was in my mid-twenties, she had a fall that left me wondering if she would recover. Each year that passed, I would pray that God would let her hang out one more year, just wait for me to get married. And she did!

This morning after 8 AM, she passed.

I knew her death was coming. My sister was kind enough to tell me that she was slipping away a couple of days ago. 3 years ago, my mother told me that my presence created stress for my grandmother. That my political views upset my grandmother’s husband, and that really, no one wanted me around. Other than my mother, I was one of the only family members that ever visited or phoned my grandmother on a regular basis. I did not want to be a burden of stress for my grandmother. I knew that stress gave her flare-ups and put her in pain. I didn’t want to cause her pain, so I listened to my mother. I stayed away. I stopped phoning her and I stopped visiting her.

I told my sister what I knew in my heart—the signs had been there, all around, for the last two weeks. Death was coming and it would arrive on January 2^nd, 2021. How ironic that my only hope when I was younger was that Grandma would live to see me marry, and today, she passes on my 12-year wedding anniversary.

My grandmother, Maureen, lived a long life. Was it good? I am not sure I ever got the impression life was “good” for her. Life was rough, and quick, and pulled out from beneath her feet time and time again. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in her early 20’s. In her early 40’s, my grandfather left her for another woman. It was on my 5th birthday that the whole family would find this out.

It was difficult to spend time with her. Not because she was mean or rude, but because watching her cling to the past with such resentment and contempt really brought a person down. I think she believed life owed her something for what had been taken away. If a drop of wine touched her lips, the John Mahaffey (my grandfather) stories would unfold, and her anger would seep through the tears.

Divorce is often worse than death, I’ve heard it said. Divorce can kill your spirit if you let it. For my grandmother, I believe that happened. When my grandmother remarried, no one was thrilled about her selection. But her health was ailing, she was lonely, and she wanted companionship. Her new husband would provide that for her. But then, he took away from her every bit that life had not.

I was told she saw my grandfather a few times before she died. Interesting that the one person she had so much contempt for was the spirit that she saw hovering near her as she was preparing for her next journey. That brings me hope. The hope is that when we pass, we let go of everything we cling to and it is transformed into something beautiful, loving, and bright. The hope is that we are not tethered to this narrow dimension and can be free to spend eternity in peace.

I have hope for truth in death as well. My hope is that my grandmother will come to know why I had to stay away. That she will know that I wanted to be there for her, but I didn’t want to create stress for her. I hope that she knows that I loved her deeply as a granddaughter could. That I treasured her tales of growing up on the farm. I want her to know the space she shared with me mattered. She didn’t say “I love you” all that often to anyone, but whenever I left, she would whisper it in my ear, “I love you, Danielle.” I am grateful that she was willing to be that vulnerable with me.

I know it seems a bit odd, but I think my anniversary will have new meaning, now more than ever. It wasn’t a death that was approaching, but life. Grandma is now living her best life, in eternity. She is free of pain, contempt, and heartache. She is no longer paralyzed on one side of her body. She can see clearly. I bet all she can see is the light. And that brings me true joy.