Things I Remember

In my last post, I talked about my Grandma's prolonged illness this year. That day, Monday, July 12, they had given her a feeding tube, because she was aspirating everything she tried to eat. The next day she was doing very well--alert and in good spirits. The day after she was back in the ICU and I was on my way to Pennsylvania. Two days later, after being told she needed surgery to treat a GI bleed, but that she wasn't strong enough to survive an operation, our family made the decision to stop intervention measures and make sure she was comfortable--and that she knew how much she was loved.

Six days later, on July 22, my Grandma, Helen Marie Snyder, passed away. She was 81. I got to be with her for 31 of those years, and it wasn't enough.

I've talked at length with many of my friends about those last six days we were able to spend with her. But tonight, writing this post, I am remembering the many years that came before.

These are the things I remember about Grandma:

• The way she held your hand with one hand and patted the top of your hand with her other hand.
• How she spoke in the third person when she talked about how much she loved us--"You know Grandma loves you, right? Grandma loves all her grandkids so much." Typing the words, it sounds a little odd. Hearing them from her sounded....well, right.
• That she hated to have the radio playing--no matter what the station or volume--in the car. It was too loud and distracting for her when she drove.
• The Johnny Cash, Conway Twitty and John Denver albums mixed in among her collection of mostly gospel vinyl records.
• That she was one of the worst drivers ever. But since she didn't get her driver's license until she was in her 30s or so and she was so short she could barely see over the steering wheel, we didn't hold it against her. Plus she drove too slowly to ever cause any real damage. Oddly, I'm not sure if she ever even had an accident.
• Her cooking, especially when I was younger. She always complained about it and talked about how much work it was, and how she hated cooking (and couldn't believe it when I took a liking to it). But she was in her kitchen half the time, making zucchini bread or pudding or baked lima beans or something. Mainly she cooked simple things, but they were delicious. And she always let us lick the spoon when she was done.
• How much she loved to feed people and was always worried that someone would go hungry. Maybe she cooked so much, despite her hatred of it, because she wanted to be sure she always had something to offer anyone who came by her home. Grandma grew up very poor, and I have a feeling she went to bed hungry more nights than one, so she made sure no one ever left her place hungry. You could be sure that if you stopped by her apartment you would be asked if you were hungry, if you wanted something to eat or if you would like a piece of candy or chocolate (depending on which she had available at the moment).
• How much she loved tomato sandwiches and chocolate pudding (don't worry, not at the same time).
• Her hugs. No one ever gave a truer hug than Grandma. She hugged with her whole being.
• Her yardstick, stored right inside the door to the basement stairs, with the threat of punishment if we misbehaved. It was threatened far more often than it was ever used.
• That she was always concerned about how her hair looked. I don't think it was vanity so much as wanting to make sure was "presentable." She kept it short and curled, and would fret if it got too long and a "mess," if it had been too long since it was permed, or if an unexpected visitor stopped by and caught her with her hair uncombed. We kept it combed for at the hospital, for any visitors who stopped by.
• How much she worried--about her kids, her grandkids, her friends, her extended family... about everyone but herself.
• My last conversation with her in her apartment, right before Christmas. My brother was asking me about my recent running endeavors and the 5K race I'd finished a few months earlier. Grandma asked how far that was, and I said about three miles. Then I said my next goal was to do a half-marathon. She asked how far that was and I said 13.1 miles. Without skipping a beat, she asked, "Do you want a piece of chocolate?" (I told you!).

The more I write, the more I remember. Some of it I can put into words, and some of it I can't. What I do know is that if you ever met Grandma, you never forgot her.