Goodbye, Great-Grandma: How Our Teens Faced Their First Loss

Dear ones, last week I got the call that my grandmother wasn't doing well and we should please come right away. Their dad was away on a business trip, so I told our 17-year-olds that this might be the end for their great-grandma and that I was heading out right now with my mom to be with her.

I left them some money and said they could order a pizza with the extra kid we have staying with us. “Sure, we'll do that,” they said. And then one of them asked, “Hey, but how are YOU doing with all this?” That question hit me so squarely in the heart that all I could do was smile warmly.

I was still in the middle of functioning and organizing, and then along comes this empathy, this genuine interest and so much humanity that, even now as I write this, I feel all soft and cloudy. “I think I'm okay, but let's look after her first.” Maybe I said something like that, but I honestly don't remember.

At 92, you're allowed to leave this world. And still, an era ends, of course. Suddenly the pictures from childhood and my teen years are back. The last big birthday, the party for her 90th with so many people there, plays like a movie in my mind. You realize that now the last of the older generation is really going. Everything in the family shifts and sorts itself out again.

Then you arrive and take care of things and drive home again, and then another call comes: everyone should come back, she might be about to go. And then you're completely in the moment. Listening to every breath. Singing songs. Holding hands. Feeling the family hold together. Moving around each other without words. And one clear message: “No one goes through this alone.”

You sleep very little and you're part of some in-between world. Now and then you dock back at home and just lie down on the couch next to your teenager. You leave, you come back, and you get hugged: “Mom, we thought we'd find you in tears.” I'm okay, I'm okay, thank you for looking out for me. And then she goes. My grandmother. Their great-grandma.

My mom calls, and we head out. The kids are still at school, so I let them know on my own. We're going now. We'll be there for now. On my phone, I look through pictures of my grandmother. The phone suggests a movie made from the photos, set to music. I send that one to the family WhatsApp group too. “Oh God,” “Poor Grandma,” “Aww, noooo,” “We're lighting a little candle.”

Great-Grandma looks completely peaceful. She died at home. Everything is as it always was. And nothing is the way it was before. I spend the afternoon with her, along with my aunt, my mom, and my cousin. I text: “Kids, we could all go say goodbye together tonight.” “Hmm.” Our kids have been lucky so far to be spared bigger blows. They've never seen a person who has died, only our dog after he was gone, and they still remember that.

I drive home, we eat dinner together, and then my mom calls to ask if we can pick her up. Our boys are grabbing every chance they get to drive right now. I ask: Would you come along? Pick up Grandma? Say goodbye to Great-Grandma? You can drive, too. One of you there, one of you back. Okay. Let's go.

I tell them that the bed is around the corner on the right, same as always. That Great-Grandma looks a little like a figure at Madame Tussauds, like in a wax museum. That her eyes and mouth are closed. That she looks peaceful. But you go first, Mom.

Take care, Great-Grandma

When we arrive, the doctor is just there to fill out the death certificate. Okay. We only glance into the room, walk around the corner and look at the bed. At Great-Grandma. Whoa. Your breath catches for a second. Part of you wants to turn right around and walk out. “Could you step out for a moment? It won't take long,” the doctor says. So we leave, catch our breath, walk over to the place where we had our last ice cream with Great-Grandma, look into the chapel, and remember.

Then we go back up. Calmly this time. We take in the beautiful view from her apartment and stand arm in arm at the foot of the bed. Twin, Grandma, twin, Mom. Bye, Great-Grandma. Take care.

“We owe her so much” is printed on the obituary. It lists eight grandchildren and 13 great-grandchildren. The 14th great-grandchild is on the way. Tomorrow, when we all come together at her grave to say one last goodbye, it will be a huge family reunion. One little great-grandson very much wants to help “bury her.” Another wants to bring tissues to hand out to sad grown-ups. And they get to. Everyone gets to be part of it. Big or small.

A big, soft family mosaic of all kinds of colorful pieces, where Great-Grandma gets to leave this world gently laid to rest. In peace. Forever. And loved. <3

It's okay to go at 92.

And it's still okay to be sad.

How good that we all have each other.