On the evening of Thursday, August 28th, my dear grandmother (and my last surviving grandparent) succumbed to the effects of chemotherapy and passed away in her bed in District Heights, Maryland, just as Barack Obama was about to make his acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention in Denver.
Grandma was a very strong, very generous, very loyal woman with the most fabulous green thumb of anyone who's ever lived. She was stricken with ovarian cancer (a couple of years ago, if my mental timeline is correct) and further weakened by the chemotherapy that the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore used to treat the disease. Part of my mother is furious that she ultimately died from the radiation that was supposed to cure her disease, but I remind her that she was being treated by one of the chief doctors at the best hospital anyone could wish for, and that it was surely the best option they had. After lengthy attempts to treat her problems at Washington Hospital Center, and an unsuccessful stint at a rehabilitation center, she was finally sent back home to be with family and live out her last days with at-home hospice care.
Knowing that Grandma had days (or maybe hours) left to live, my mother flew into town from Colorado the previous Tuesday, and I came down Wednesday to stay with them. I planned to get some work done while I was down there, but since that didn't end up being possible, I told Grandma on Thursday evening that I was going to Baltimore for a few hours, that I would be back soon, and that I loved her. She opened her eyes to look at me (which I know was hard for her to do at that stage), and squirmed her mouth a little (she was virtually unable to talk anymore) to acknowledge what I said to her.
Later that evening at the office, as I was trying to finish my work, my father called. He and my sisters had just arrived in town, and they found out that Grandma had passed away before they could see her. I got hysterical for a while and cried my eyes out (much like last year when I found out that my last girlfriend, with whom I was still very much in love, was found dead). After finished what had to be done, I drove back down to Grandma's house to join my mother. Mom was obviously devastated, but tried not to show it, knowing that she had to be strong for a lot of people.
My boss at work, who is a deacon at his church, thankfully insisted that I take the entire next week off to be with family and attend to matters. I stayed at Grandma's house with my mother most of that week, keeping her company and holding her tight when all the memories broke down her outer defenses. There was a family viewing on Thursday, September 4th, and then the funeral and burial on Friday the 5th.
This was my first Southern Baptist funeral. Most of it was a celebration of what was great Grandma. People she knew spoke about her, the choir sung their hearts out, the deacon gave a fiery and passionate testimonial about all of her amazing qualities, and everyone got their last look at her. As much as I find open-casket funerals to be creepy, Grandma was as beautiful as she always used to be.
The burial took place at an astoundingly expansive and gorgeous place in Rockville. We traveled there in blue Cadillac limosine, driving through forestry, through rolling hills, and over stone bridges as we approached the site. She was being laid to rest there along with my grandfather and uncle. This was the hardest part of the entire experience. Once they laid Grandma's casket into the ground and the family gathered around the grave to say our final goodbyes, my mother was bawling so hard it broke my heart like it's never been broken before. I held her tight as she kept repeating, "I love you so much Mother, thank you for making me strong mother, please don't leave me Mother, I love you Mother." As I held Mom, I was crying as hard as she was.
Everyone spent the rest of the day together--first back at the church, then at Grandma's house--eating dinner, then spending time together as a big, close extended family. I caught up with a lot of relatives I haven't seen since I was a pipsqueak, and met a lot of wonderful people I didn't know before. In the process, I found out about some wonderfully notable people in my family tree:
- George Birth, my first cousin twice removed (whatever that means) was a pitcher for the Atlanta Braves from 1965 to 1972. In addition, he's related by marriage to Magic Johnson.
- One of my relatives was a pimp. YES, A REAL PIMP, managing bitches and all that. (I don't know yet if he had the feathered fedora and the blingy pimp cane.) After he left the game, he disappeared for nine years. No idea what happened after that.
- Another relative once stole an entire 18-wheeler full of liquor, sold all of the contents, and never got caught.
- My uncle's ex-wife is the daughter of Medgar Evers, one of the most prominent civil rights leaders in U.S. history.
I knew I'd miss Grandma, but as is usually the case in the death of a loved one, the loss is tougher than I thought it would be. She was an amazing woman, she raised my mom to be an amazing woman, and because of that, my mother raised me to be a pretty swell guy. I owe Grandma so much for everything I'm proud of about myself.
Here is the obituary for Grandma that ran in The Washington Post on Wednesday, September 3rd.
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