Our trip to Cabo was on the books- the hotel was a dream, beyond a hookup. The spray tan was applied, the toning goals accomplished. We were born ready.  And then the phone call came from my brother- the measured, fact-gathering sibling- who dropped the news that would change everything arrived. Our 90-year-old Grandmother (a.k.a. Grams) was fading fast and he was inviting me up to the north to see her in her final days. We’d just been up there a month or so earlier to throw her a shindig (that we knew may be her last) so I didn’t feel that I had any last words to say. My time with her at the party had been of quality and meaning.

Then I spoke to my dad who put it like this:

“Grams is ready to pass, has been for a very long time. But despite all that, dying is scary. And I want to be there to put her at ease.”

My Grams is like my mother. The only way I can adequately describe what she means to me is to say, “She never checked out on me.” She has always been there- loving me, nurturing me, praying for me, worrying about me, and mothering me. I knew I had to be there for her now.

We changed our reservation and planned a trip the next day to my hometown.

When I first arrived and met the hospice nurses and greeted my dear cousin and Aunt who’d been the main caregivers these last long months, I was immediately struck at how commonplace it seemed. Although my usually-spunky spitfire of a Grandma was now frail and quiet, lying still on her giant king-sized bed, everyone else was bustling around her. Discussions of room temperature and how much medication to administer were constant topics. And still my Grandmother’s presence was giant and not because she was the subject of conversation.

But because she is still larger than life, such a presence and still loved by so many. People came almost every hour, on the hour, to love on her. And although she was drugged up and seemed to be confused most of the day, she knew enough to greet them and joke with them, essentially making them feel loved and welcome. And this will be her legacy. She was kind to everyone. Even ex-spouses of her own children- one whom visited her daily and left with a kiss on her mouth and a tender word. During Christmas dinners, her own first and second husband would be doing dishes side by side at the sink. She didn’t hold grudges and knew what was important- family, forgiveness, and love.

As the men sat around the kitchen table conversing, leaving at intervals to grab food, and watching You Tube videos on their phones, the women were in Grams’ room. We bustled around adjusting the draft, massaging lotion into her tired limbs, applying chap stick to her lips, and holding her hands. We tended to her every need although it was bittersweet- sad and momentous at the same time to slowly be saying goodbye. The feeling in the home was heavy.

What struck me was that women DO. We get it done. We bring the babies into the world and we administer to our loved ones as they leave the world. We have the emotional strength to do all those weighty things. I was so proud to be a woman and to be surrpounded by my strong posterity who together were doing a very hard thing.