Dear friends, when I received a call last week telling me that my grandmother was not well and that we should come urgently, my husband was away on business, so I told my 17-year-olds that their great-grandmother might be dying and that I was going to go and see her with my mother right away.
I gave them some money and told them they could order a pizza with our guest child. „Sure, we’ll do that,“ they said. And then one of them asked, „Hey, but how are YOU feeling about this?“ And that question hit me so hard in the heart that I could only smile warmly.
I was still in the middle of functioning and organising, and then this empathy came along, this genuine interest and so much humanity that it still feels cloudily soft as I write this. „I think it’s okay, but let’s check on her first.“ Maybe I answered something like that, but I don’t remember.
At 92 years of age, it’s okay to leave this world. And yet, of course, an era is coming to an end. Suddenly, images from childhood and youth come flooding back. The last big birthday, the 90th birthday party with so many people, plays out again like a film in my mind’s eye. You realise that now the last of the older generation is truly leaving. The structure is being rearranged.
And then you arrive and take care of things and leave again, and then another call comes in saying that everyone should come back now, because she might make it. And then you are completely in the moment. Listening to every breath. Singing songs. Holding hands. Feeling the family bond. Wordless interaction. And a clear „No one goes alone here“.
You sleep little and are part of an in-between world. You dock at home from time to time and just lie down next to your teenager on the sofa. You drive away, come back and are hugged: „Mum, we thought we’d find you in tears.“ „It’s okay, it’s okay, thank you for looking out for me.“ And then she makes it. My grandmother. Her great-grandmother. My mother calls, we set off. The children are still at school, I let them know myself. We’re leaving now. We’re there now. I look at pictures of my grandmother on my mobile phone. The device suggests a film made from the pictures. With music. I send this to the family WhatsApp group too. „Oh God,“ „Poor Grandma,“ „Oh no,“ „We’ll light a candle.“ My great-grandmother looks very peaceful. She died in her own home. Everything is as usual. And nothing is as it was before. I spend the afternoon with her, with my aunt, my mother, my cousin. I write: „Children, we could all go and say goodbye together again tonight.“ „Hmm.“ Our children have been fortunate enough to have been spared any major tragedies so far; they have never seen a dead person, only our dog when he passed away, which they still remember.
I drive home, we have dinner together, then my mother calls to ask if we can pick her up. Our boys are taking every opportunity to drive. I ask: Would you like to come with us? Pick up Grandma? Say goodbye to Great-Grandma? You can drive too. One there, one back. Okay. Let’s go.
I tell them that the bed is in the right-hand corner, as usual. That great-grandma looks a bit like a figure at Madame Tussauds, like in a wax museum. That her eyes and mouth are closed. That she looks peaceful. You go first, Mum.
Great-grandma, take care
When we arrive, the doctor is there to issue the death certificate. Okay. We just take a quick look into the room, go around the corner and look at the bed. At great-grandma. Uff. It takes our breath away for a moment. We want to leave right away. „Could you step outside for a moment, it won’t take long,“ says the doctor. And we leave the situation, take a deep breath, go back to where we ate our last ice cream with Grandma, look into the chapel, remember.
Then we go back upstairs. Calmly. We enjoy the beautiful view from her flat and stand arm in arm at the foot of the bed. Twin, grandmother, twin, mother. Goodbye, great-grandmother. Take care.
„We owe her so much“ is written on the obituary. Eight grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren are listed. The 14th great-grandchild is on the way. It will be a huge family gathering when we all say goodbye one last time at her grave tomorrow. One little great-grandchild is determined to help with the burial. Another wants to bring tissues to hand out to sad adults. And they are allowed to do so. Everyone is allowed to be part of it. No matter whether big or small.
A large, soft family mosaic made up of many different colourful pieces, in which the great-grandmother can leave this world, softly bedded. In peace. Forever. And loved. <3
You can go at 92.
And yet it’s still okay to be sad.
How good it is that we all have each other.
