Last weekend, we were in Virginia, visiting my (maternal) grandmother in the hospital. I won’t go into details, but if you read down further in this blog (see May the Road Rise Up to Meet You, from August 2008), you’ll know I lost my (maternal) grandfather last summer. In between then and now, my husband’s grandfather passed away, as well. So I guess you’d say we’ve had our share of loss over the past six months.
Anyway, my grandmother is an important woman in my life who’s always been a strong and in charge kind of person. Through a bad series of events, the woman who just six months ago was a rock is now basically weak and struggling on her deathbed, and I’ve found I’m completely unprepared for it. It’s funny; the men seem to go in our family — we’ve come to accept that — but the women tend to hang around for a long time. Really, we’re supposed to be immortal, right? Come on, now… she’s only 84!!
So, seeing her declining so quickly, I just wanted to sit by her bedside, hold her hand, and take it all in. She wasn’t in a talkative mode, but I was pretty sure she enjoyed the company; the entire time I held her hand, she held on pretty tightly.
It was during one of those quiet moments, while I just sat holding her hand, looking at our hands grasped together, and feeling that unfamiliar connection, that I fully realized in a wave of emotion how much I love this woman, and how much a part of my life she’s been.
A flood of memories then filled my mind, not just of holding the hands of those who were important to me when they were on their way out — such as my grandfather, my father, my great-grandmother — but many others. When I thought about it, I realized that though I haven’t held hands with many, I could recall their hands in detail, even though I’d never consciously thought about it.
They were all beautiful… and unique.
Though you hear the saying, “The eyes are the window to the soul,” the hands… well, they tell the story. Rough and strong? Small and delicate? Petite but tough? Decisive and hard-working? Every set is marked from life in one way or the other, with the individual’s experience almost etched in like a tattoo.
While I sat there thinking about that, looking at both my grandmother’s and my hands together and feeling very close to her, I thought a lot about our relationship throughout my life. Though until my adult years we hadn’t really been a conversational pair with each other, she’s always had an important supportive role to me. She’s been my silent helper through times of trouble, whether emotionally, financially, or just because she was there (even when I didn’t realize it, at the time). Even later, when she became somewhat more open with discussion, there have been times when I’d touch on a sensitive subject, something with which I’d had problems, and she would voice her support with few words, or even a look — and though I’ve never felt comfortable relaying a lot of my petty details to her, it’s always felt like we’ve understood each other, anyway, and I could feel my connection to her.
I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I held her hand. And then I asked myself, why not? I hold my husband’s and children’s hands regularly. But why does everyone shy away from holding the hands of those they love, even when it’s not those two types of relationships (and sometimes not even those)? Is it because that’s too personal, and touches too much on emotion, which as adults, we’re not supposed to have?
She’s definitely been one of the helping hands in my life. So I guess I felt like it was time for me to be one for her, even if it was just to hold her hand while she’s fighting a declining battle for her life. This time, I wanted to be her support. All I could hope for was that she could somehow win this fight… or that if it was to be a lost battle, that it would end as quickly and painlessly as possible.
I love you, Grandma. Regardless of what happens, thank you for being a helping hand in my life.
