I have been thinking about my grandmother lately.
In truth, I think about her a lot. I haven’t stopped thinking about her since she died in early 2021. She died the day after I got my first COVID vaccine, early in the morning when everyone was else sleeping except the ones by her side.
She was my father’s mother: goofy and obsessed with angel figurines. Her name was Darlene. Could you dream up a more grandmotherly name? Darlene Joy—my daughter’s middle name is the same as hers. She met my grandpa at a skating rink when they were kids. She liked fishing and being out at the lake with her family. She hated fireworks.
I remember finding a copy of Monica Lewinsky’s memoir in her home office in the 90s, and I didn’t know what to make of it. As far as I knew, everyone was a Republican and Monica Lewinsky was a bad woman. That’s how the story was told. She was the villain. The Democrats were also the villains, specifically President Clinton.
But now I think back to that detail—finding that memoir on a stack of books when I couldn’t have been older than 10–and I remain even more curious about my grandmother.
Nana, we called her.
There’s six of us grandchildren, and in the summers growing up, the older four of us would spend our days with Nana, playing games until one of us started crying. Then Nana would come out of her office and lecture us as we suppressed our giggles, and then the day would end in snacks and a game of Yahtzee.
It’s interesting to think about how we all have memories and experiences of Nana—some shared, some individual. I recently saw one of my cousins and we talked about Nana, and there was such a sense of connection in those moments, to be able to reminisce not only about memories, but also about who Nana was.
In her later years, Nana was very sick. She had a complex medical history and diagnoses on top of mental illness and past addiction. She stayed in a nursing home in her final months—the same one where my great-grandmother lived for over ten years after her husband died.
Because of her various physical and mental health issues, Nana often canceled plans or didn’t show up to family events. I remember being so angry with her when she did this. So annoyed. How could she not prioritize her grandchildren? Didn’t she want to see us? Didn’t she want to spend time with her great-granddaughter?
Her ability to live up to my expectations was the measure of love in my eyes.
And then she got COVID right before she was to receive the vaccine.
And from there, her health deteriorated quickly, even after getting over COVID. She didn’t talk much at the end.
I was waiting for my COVID vaccine so I could go see her.
The day I got the first dose of the COVID vaccine, we got the call that it was time. She was actively dying. I gathered up my three-year-old daughter and we drove to the nursing home.
I talked with my uncle and grandpa as my Nana laid unconscious in the bed nearby, fidgeting as the dying do sometimes. My daughter ran around the room even as my husband tried to subdue her.
I prayed over her a mixture of Psalm 23 and the evening prayer from the Book of Common Prayer:
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake. Amen.
I held my grandma’s hand and my daughter reached out to her arm, imitating me.
I think about that moment a lot. My daughter unflinchinginly reaching out to my grandmother’s arm because she saw me do it. My daughter doesn’t remember her great-grandmother. But she touched her. She prayed over her with me.
My daughter asks about death frequently. Sometimes I worry that classmates or teachers will be troubled by her questions and discussion of death. I worry that I’ve been too casual with death when she calls me up to her room at night to tell me that she doesn’t want to die.
But I don’t regret taking her to see my dying grandmother because how many chances do you get to say goodbye?
One day, hopefully when my daughter is very old, her great-granddaughter will touch her arm as she lay on her deathbed. Hopefully her last hours on earth are filled with children’s laughter, too.
Nana was a substantial woman with short curly hair for most of my life, but as she lay dying, she was rail thin with long, straight hair. She looked so young. I had never seen her like that before.
I felt like I was getting a glimpse of who she was before she was Nana. Perhaps even more before she was Mom to my dad and his siblings.
I felt like I was seeing her as a little girl—the youngest of four, desperate for her much older siblings’ affection and wondering if she did something wrong for her mother to be so unkind to her.
She is even more a mystery to me now.
I presided over her memorial service on a windy day at the lake. We told stories and listened to country singers singing gospel music. It was the honor of my life.
Soon after, I got sick. A mixture of chronic physical and mental health issues. I started having panic attacks nearly every week. I couldn’t eat, and if I did, I became ill. I quickly lost weight I didn’t have and felt myself disappearing.
I underwent a lot of medical tests without clear results, and I languished. I spent countless hours in bed and on the floor of a bathroom. I did not see a clear path forward for myself, and while I didn’t want to end my life, I couldn’t help thinking, “This is not a life.”
And I replayed that night at the nursing home in my head every time I laid in bed when I wanted to be working or cooking or playing with my daughter.
Nana was quirky and had so much unprocessed childhood trauma that came out in bits and pieces throughout her life. As far as I know, her mental illness and addiction were not well-treated.
Because of this, she was often written off as “Crazy Nana.” I got frustrated with her as did other family members. I saw her with childhood eyes, accepting and interpreting the stories and fragments with my limited and developing understanding.
Now, I wonder if she was unfairly maligned. There is so much I don’t know about Nana. But the things I do know lead me to believe that her “kookiness” was perhaps her coping skills for an unmanageable burden.
I wonder if she saw a little of herself in the unfairly maligned Monica Lewinsky. Someone at the mercy of the power of others, not given the tools and resources she needed to act differently.
As I have missed out on family events over the past few years for health reasons, panic attack prevention, and general pandemic reasons, I have felt a certain comfort because I know that Nana would understand. If anyone would, she would.
Her death left me bereft. I cried all day the day she died.
I thought about the Sundays I would go home with her and my grandpa after church. How quiet those afternoons were with our modest sandwiches and daytime weekend television. I would lay on the couch until pronouncing, “I’m bored!” A few hours later. And my grandparents would dutifully drive me home, and if wounded by my pronouncement, not letting on.
The exhalation of those Sunday afternoons remains with me. How lucky to have spent such uneventful and comfortable days with my grandmother that I grew bored.
I identify with my grandma more today than I ever have before. Compassion pours out of me for her and the life she lived, the life she could have lived.
What could have been had she found supportive treatment for her dependence on pills? What could have been had she been properly treated for her mental illness? And not just for her family, but for her?
I carry these questions with me as I go to therapy, pick up my anti-anxiety medication, and seek to heal childhood wounds. I think about Nana as I make changes in my life that further integrate my values with my vocation and my family life.
And I remember my last moments with her. With my daughter by our side. It’s a reminder that our stories are wrapped up in one another, that her story extends into mine even after her death.
Thank you for sharing your story.
Thanks for sharing, Ashley. My family history, too, has mental illness, which we have been reluctant to talk about, unfortunately.