Jo sadly passed away shortly after this article was published. [1] RIP. [1] https://www.macleans.ca/news/canada/they-came-to-celebrate-j...
Found this sobering. And somewhat relevant to my life, in a tangential way.
My grandfather passed away from his second bout with lung cancer, a couple years after Alzheimer's had started to take him over, around 5 years ago. He was a miner on the Iron Range in Minnesota, where my family is, so that explained the lung cancer.
My grandma passed away a week ago from COVID. She tested positive for it the weekend before, in her nursing home. The reason she was in a nursing home is that her memory had been fading, up until it was decided that she couldn't take care of her house alone anymore, around a year ago.
Her memory was to the point where she'd circle back to things she already told me about 20 minutes before. But she was still cogent and it was still her.
But she didn't like living in the nursing home, because it didn't feel like much of a life. More of a routine. All of our conversation were extremely positive--that's who she was, afterall--but they were always somewhat morose. She always made sure to devote time in each conversation to telling me how much she loved me, was proud of me, and I'd do the same, reminiscing on the memories we had of me staying with them over the summer as a kid.
But it was pretty obvious to me--even though she never announced she knew she was going to die without being able to return to that life--that she wanted to make sure I knew how she felt, that there was no room for me to have missed the opportunity to know that, and that she was doing that on purpose, with intent.
Some of the hardest aspects to her death come with the circumstances. When her oxygen dropped Thursday night, I couldn't call her. No one could. When she made it to the hospital, her oxygen dropped so far, so quick that all they could do was ensure her body didn't hurt as the virus suffocated her brain. No one could say goodbye, and she didn't get to say hers.
Now we're learning to grieve remotely. My mom has MS, so it's not even a question of gambling on the risks of a family gathering for me to see her. Long phone conversations. It doesn't get easier, but it gets more normal.
Part of me knows that death wasn't something my Grandma feared. It was the inevitable next step in her life, cornered by her body's incapacity to change it. I know she would've preferred for us to be there with her, and for her to have a chance to cry over it and say goodbye to the people she loved, the people that loved her.