So long and goodnight
I never said goodbye properly, and to be honest, I don't know why. I went to see you with mom three days ago. It was the last time I saw your eyes looking at me and really understanding I was there; mom told you I was there and suddenly you said something. "Is she?" Nothing else. I haven't heard your voice since then, only coughs. I wish so badly I had taken my chance to say I love you and I will miss you, grandma. But maybe my hand holding yours said it all; I think you said goodbye to me when you squeezed it like that, and reacting when hearing my name. I was too scared to open my mouth and tell you how this feels, because maybe I would hurt you in someway, or maybe I'd annoy you. And I went to see you two days ago with mom and dad, but you didn't utter a word, only listened to us talk to you. Dad said you're a fighter, mom said you're the best mother in the world. But I was speechless. I was told you had a week left. I was completely shocked, because this "half a year" and "a couple of months" were suddenly just a week. In a week, seven days, 168 hours, you would be gone. Where is this "gone", grandma? You'll know soon. I will remain wondering.
We stayed up late talking about memories with you, and I realize now that we have so many happy memories together. You've been there all my life, now suddenly to be taken away, and it makes me understand how fragile life is. I'm grateful; I wish I had said thank you, grandma, for always being so great.
And so as I walked from school yesterday, I noticed mom's car outside your house. I knew that she was going to visit you after driving me to school, so I wondered why she'd go see you just a couple of hours after the last visit. I decided to go inside, and I found mom, my aunt and your best friend gathered around your bed.
It's not your apartment anymore, grandma. There are no pins that fell from the walls on the floor, the television isn't set to scream out on its highest volume. There's no grandma's-house-smell, and there is no light blue plate on your table. The refrigerator isn't full of too optimistic amounts of food. There is no bowl of candy next to your flowers. There's a wheelchair next to the door and the books that nobody has touched for years. There's a grey wig upon a box in your bedroom. Your bed has been traded for a specially designed, it's adjustable and has a handle. The curtains don't cover your windows anymore, and the lamps are lit all the time. The kitchen has a pile of boxes in the corner, where all the nourishment drinks are kept. Is it really you, living here? Is it really you, grandma, laying in that bed, so skinny and pale? Is it true, that you're about to leave us? I don't want to believe it.
Alright then, I can believe it. I've been living with this threat for years now. I remember the first time you were diagnosed with cancer and mom told me; I was only nine, I think, and I was shocked. When you were in hospital, I made paintings and letters to give to you on my next visit. I didn't want to understand, but somewhere deep inside, I did. I have known for five years that anytime you could be gone. But do I want to know, understand, realize? No, no, no. But you recovered from that cancer, and you were fine. Still, you were old, and old people can pass anytime. After a year or two, it happened again. Another type of cancer, worse this time. You were in surgeries, had medicines, went to the hospital, chemos, cytotoxin. I was older this time, and it was so much more serious this time. I've always visited you often, and I saw how you got worse; pains, hair falling out, confusion and talking about your life a lot more. But it never got as bad as seeing you unable to move or speak, until just months ago. Probably not even months, it might be just weeks. It's not at all long since you walked, joked, talked, ate. It went so incredibly fast after they told us there was nothing else to do. I did understand it was going to take you away, but not so quickly. I never thought it'd go so fast. I saw how your pains got worse, so they gave you higher amounts of morphine. I saw the morphine and lots of daily pills make you dizzy and confused. I saw you looking at me but asking who I was. I saw how sitting down bothered you, so you had to either walk around or lay down. I saw how you lost your apetite. I saw how you eventually lost the will or strength to walk around like that; so you began laying down all the time. I saw how your legs got weak and you would fall in the middle of the night. I saw how you lost ability to take care of your apartment, so the home-help service was sent. Doctors and nurses began to see you every day. I saw how they began coming more often until they were there all the time, every second of the day. I saw how you only slept, not awake more than one hour a day. I saw how you looked like wishing to tell me so much, but only uttering a strange sound. I think that gets us to where we are now. It's all so real since mom told me you had approxiomately one week left.
Yesterday, your best friend and my aunt were talking about heaven and meeting again. They talked about that dream you had when you first got ill; a boy leading you over a bridge. I almost wish I could have said the same sort of things, because it sounds so sweet, but it's not right. I don't believe in it. Do you know why I'm crying? Because we won't meet again. It'd be such a relief to think you'll be in a higher power's hands now, our that you're in paradise, our that you met those you love who also passed. You'd deserve it, you certainly would, but I still don't believe it. There will be an eternal rest, you will find peace, there will be no more pain in you.
I've got so many memories with you, I'll always keep them like treasures in my heart. I used to sit on your huge, striped couch and listen to you talk about all you've ever seen. I remember being little and walking home from school - I was in first grade - bringing you the mail from your mail box, how you put cookies on the table and I'd fall asleep watching Nickelodeon on your tv and I'd slightly wake up as you gave me a quilt. I remember how you made chocolate cake for us to pick up on our way home from school; we always got it in a blue plastic bag. I remember helping you shopping, you always asked if there was anything I'd need. I remember all phone calls asking about what was currently going on in our lives, you kept apologizing for being so curious, but I only appreciated it. I remember visiting you with my best friend when we were ten, and you were so fond of her. I remember every birthday and Christmas when you'd bring brilliant presents even though you sometimes lacked the money. You always remembered our name days and sent us cards. These cards were sometimes from the wrong connections; they would say "welcome" or "sorry", but it was so you, grandma, and it was just out of such love. We had so many good laughs about you and with you; but they were never mocking your slight crazyness, we just loved it.
And so last night, mom stayed at your house. Dad was invited to a party, so I stayed home with my brother and sister. We tried to cheer up, watching Toy Story and eating pizza, but there was still that fog around my head. We went to bed around 11.30, and I woke up almost twelve hours later as the telephone rang. It was one of my friends asking how everything's going with me and grandma, I said I didn't know because I just woke up. Afterwards, I called my mom and I could tell from her voice what just happened. Grandma, you had died twenty minutes earlier.
We went to take one last goodbye. I strongly felt that this wasn't your house anymore, these cancer adjusted items are so anonymous, they're not yours anymore. They never were yours in that way, but now they're just... I mean, you're not ill anymore, grandma. You're not old, neither young, you're not ill, neither well, you're everything yet nothing. You are gone forever. I never thought it'd actually feel this way, but; you still live inside me. I will keep these memories alive.
You were peacefully laying on white sheets, wearing your white lace shirt and black pants. Your body looked scarred from cancer; extremely skinny, austere, pale, yet so peaceful. You won't feel anymore pain. This constant fight is over. Rest in peace, grandma.
Berith Lillevi Drätting
April 25th 1924 - September 20th 2008
Mormor, vart du än är. Jag kommer sakna dig.
We stayed up late talking about memories with you, and I realize now that we have so many happy memories together. You've been there all my life, now suddenly to be taken away, and it makes me understand how fragile life is. I'm grateful; I wish I had said thank you, grandma, for always being so great.
And so as I walked from school yesterday, I noticed mom's car outside your house. I knew that she was going to visit you after driving me to school, so I wondered why she'd go see you just a couple of hours after the last visit. I decided to go inside, and I found mom, my aunt and your best friend gathered around your bed.
It's not your apartment anymore, grandma. There are no pins that fell from the walls on the floor, the television isn't set to scream out on its highest volume. There's no grandma's-house-smell, and there is no light blue plate on your table. The refrigerator isn't full of too optimistic amounts of food. There is no bowl of candy next to your flowers. There's a wheelchair next to the door and the books that nobody has touched for years. There's a grey wig upon a box in your bedroom. Your bed has been traded for a specially designed, it's adjustable and has a handle. The curtains don't cover your windows anymore, and the lamps are lit all the time. The kitchen has a pile of boxes in the corner, where all the nourishment drinks are kept. Is it really you, living here? Is it really you, grandma, laying in that bed, so skinny and pale? Is it true, that you're about to leave us? I don't want to believe it.
Alright then, I can believe it. I've been living with this threat for years now. I remember the first time you were diagnosed with cancer and mom told me; I was only nine, I think, and I was shocked. When you were in hospital, I made paintings and letters to give to you on my next visit. I didn't want to understand, but somewhere deep inside, I did. I have known for five years that anytime you could be gone. But do I want to know, understand, realize? No, no, no. But you recovered from that cancer, and you were fine. Still, you were old, and old people can pass anytime. After a year or two, it happened again. Another type of cancer, worse this time. You were in surgeries, had medicines, went to the hospital, chemos, cytotoxin. I was older this time, and it was so much more serious this time. I've always visited you often, and I saw how you got worse; pains, hair falling out, confusion and talking about your life a lot more. But it never got as bad as seeing you unable to move or speak, until just months ago. Probably not even months, it might be just weeks. It's not at all long since you walked, joked, talked, ate. It went so incredibly fast after they told us there was nothing else to do. I did understand it was going to take you away, but not so quickly. I never thought it'd go so fast. I saw how your pains got worse, so they gave you higher amounts of morphine. I saw the morphine and lots of daily pills make you dizzy and confused. I saw you looking at me but asking who I was. I saw how sitting down bothered you, so you had to either walk around or lay down. I saw how you lost your apetite. I saw how you eventually lost the will or strength to walk around like that; so you began laying down all the time. I saw how your legs got weak and you would fall in the middle of the night. I saw how you lost ability to take care of your apartment, so the home-help service was sent. Doctors and nurses began to see you every day. I saw how they began coming more often until they were there all the time, every second of the day. I saw how you only slept, not awake more than one hour a day. I saw how you looked like wishing to tell me so much, but only uttering a strange sound. I think that gets us to where we are now. It's all so real since mom told me you had approxiomately one week left.
Yesterday, your best friend and my aunt were talking about heaven and meeting again. They talked about that dream you had when you first got ill; a boy leading you over a bridge. I almost wish I could have said the same sort of things, because it sounds so sweet, but it's not right. I don't believe in it. Do you know why I'm crying? Because we won't meet again. It'd be such a relief to think you'll be in a higher power's hands now, our that you're in paradise, our that you met those you love who also passed. You'd deserve it, you certainly would, but I still don't believe it. There will be an eternal rest, you will find peace, there will be no more pain in you.
I've got so many memories with you, I'll always keep them like treasures in my heart. I used to sit on your huge, striped couch and listen to you talk about all you've ever seen. I remember being little and walking home from school - I was in first grade - bringing you the mail from your mail box, how you put cookies on the table and I'd fall asleep watching Nickelodeon on your tv and I'd slightly wake up as you gave me a quilt. I remember how you made chocolate cake for us to pick up on our way home from school; we always got it in a blue plastic bag. I remember helping you shopping, you always asked if there was anything I'd need. I remember all phone calls asking about what was currently going on in our lives, you kept apologizing for being so curious, but I only appreciated it. I remember visiting you with my best friend when we were ten, and you were so fond of her. I remember every birthday and Christmas when you'd bring brilliant presents even though you sometimes lacked the money. You always remembered our name days and sent us cards. These cards were sometimes from the wrong connections; they would say "welcome" or "sorry", but it was so you, grandma, and it was just out of such love. We had so many good laughs about you and with you; but they were never mocking your slight crazyness, we just loved it.
And so last night, mom stayed at your house. Dad was invited to a party, so I stayed home with my brother and sister. We tried to cheer up, watching Toy Story and eating pizza, but there was still that fog around my head. We went to bed around 11.30, and I woke up almost twelve hours later as the telephone rang. It was one of my friends asking how everything's going with me and grandma, I said I didn't know because I just woke up. Afterwards, I called my mom and I could tell from her voice what just happened. Grandma, you had died twenty minutes earlier.
We went to take one last goodbye. I strongly felt that this wasn't your house anymore, these cancer adjusted items are so anonymous, they're not yours anymore. They never were yours in that way, but now they're just... I mean, you're not ill anymore, grandma. You're not old, neither young, you're not ill, neither well, you're everything yet nothing. You are gone forever. I never thought it'd actually feel this way, but; you still live inside me. I will keep these memories alive.
You were peacefully laying on white sheets, wearing your white lace shirt and black pants. Your body looked scarred from cancer; extremely skinny, austere, pale, yet so peaceful. You won't feel anymore pain. This constant fight is over. Rest in peace, grandma.
Berith Lillevi Drätting
April 25th 1924 - September 20th 2008
Mormor, vart du än är. Jag kommer sakna dig.
I'm sorry.
Everyone dies eventually, but its never a fun thing to go through.
Blarg!, September 21st, 2008 at 06:14:48pm
I don't know what to say, but I can tell that this came from the bottom of your heart.
I'm sorry. =/
threeam., September 20th, 2008 at 09:39:18pm