One year ago today, we lost my grandmother.
The occasion is still documented by a series of emails from my mother, informing me first that her condition was deteriorating and then, 30 minutes later, that she had passed. It was a Thursday; I was sitting in the break room of the health sciences building on campus preparing for my clinical skills session still to come that afternoon. I then had to sit through a lesson on blood products and transfusion that felt endless; it felt so very wrong to proceed with school like everything was normal.
It's been one year, and while the ache has certainly died down, it's still there. There's something about driving longer distances that tends to bring it out in me, as I keep finding myself crying silently in the car. I think about you all the time, Grandma. I wish things didn't end the way they did, with grumpiness and obligation and Alzheimer's. You weren't your true self for the last several years, and it was easy to lose sight of that in the face of your disease. You were always full of so much love for your family; some of my best memories involved crawling into bed with you late at night or early in the morning and listening to you tell stories about Dad when he was little. You let us ride our scooters around the house when our parents were out shopping. You were always free and giving with cookie dough and cake batter, and you never failed to have ridiculous cereals on hand that we could never eat at home.
Those were things I knew and loved about you before. It has taken time and age and growing up to help me see beyond you as the giver of treats and warm hugs. You were so strong, Grandma, so unbelievably strong throughout all of the rough hands life continued to deal you. I can only hope that I have inherited even a fraction of your bravery and your grace. Thank you for having been such a positive influence on my life, despite the too-short duration of our time together.
I love you.
I miss you.
I hope I'm continuing to make you proud.