Last Wednesday, before my relatives arrived, I sat alone with my Grandma for nearly two hours in her hospital room. We sat inches away from each other, and yet our lives were worlds apart. She was born in 1924. She grew up in Tennille, Georgia, picking cotton during a time so filled with the stench of injustice that the air must have been unbreathable. Nevertheless, she emerged whole.
She was unbreakable, feisty, and strong-willed. She had to be. I remember spending countless summers as a child at my Grandma’s house. I remember silently sitting on the living room floor, watching the rain through the screen door. She would always turn off the television during a thunderstorm and walk around the house while singing songs about Jesus. She fiercely loved me. Her warmth covered me like a blanket, even when she disciplined me with a switch from her garden.
When her doctor told me that she needed to have surgery, it was unclear how slim her chances of survival were. On Thursday, the day of her surgery, she told me to make sure that the medical staff took good care of her while searching my eyes for reassurance. I could not save her. When I delivered her to the surgery team, my last words were, “I will see you soon.” I kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand. I would have said something more had I known that the operation would send her being on a path to its end.
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After the surgery, in the intensive care unit, I watched as she slowly disappeared into a place that only faith can reach. Then she was gone. Moments later, family members gathered around her body. Some cried uncontrollably like me. Others stood in disbelief. A sobbing relative begged my Grandma’s remains for forgiveness for a past wrong, but it was too late for apologies. All that was left was the insufferable weight of regret. I wish I had more time. But I will have no more tomorrows with my Grandma. That thought will be with me for the rest of my life.
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