February 15

My Grandmother is dying. It's grey and raining outside, and I'm feeling blue. I got email from my parents this morning, my grandmother, in her 90's, so not unexpectedly, is dying.  She fell ill with a fever a few days ago and did not recover, and lapsed into unconsciousness, and has not been eating or drinking.  She's under a doctor's care, and on morphine to keep her comfortable and is not expected to last the weekend.  

My grandmother is dying.  She raised me, along with my parents.  She lived with our family from before I was born and up until I was 12 years old, while my parents worked, as a young child, I was in her care. When I was 12 she moved into an apartment built for her adjoining the church hall of the church she attended faithfully. She went to help take care of the church and church hall, and assist the seniors that belonged to the church and had functions there (ironically she was older than most of them).  When I was in my twenties, she moved across the country to live with other family, and I haven't had a chance to see her since then, other than one brief visit she had here on the west coast about seven years ago.  

I remember her always in the kitchen, baking, making jam or jelly.  We had apple trees and berry bushes.  I remember in the fall, once the apples came, well into the winter, there were always apple pies, usually three or four at a time, my brothers could put away a lot of pie.  She used to joke it was one each for the boys, and the last pie or two for the rest of the family.  I remember how when I wanted an apple, she would always cut it and core it for me, even though often as a stubborn child I wanted it whole.  Now I like them best, the way she used to do it.  She used to make this snack for me sometimes, mixing peanut butter and molasses together for a dip for dry toast.  It's an odd comfort food that will always bring me back to childhood sensations.  I remember her jewelry box, with alongside the jewelry there were all kinds of unusual items from the pilgrimages she had made to Jerusalem, odd catholic items I couldn't identify, bits of wood supposed to be from the cross or the arc or who knows.  Some rich purple powder supposed to be blessed wine powder, the blood of Christ, something mysterious and almost magenta looking.  They frightened me and held awe for me, all at the same time. Strange scents and smells, somehow when we're children, scent plays a stronger role, at least for me it did.  I have scent memories of my grandmother, and her things.  I can't help but wonder, whether laying unconscious now, and close to death, how she smells, whether she smells the same as she did, or whether death is something that hangs in the air around her.

Even though she's not conscious, a big part of me wishes I could just be by her side during her final hours, as she was by my side for my first years.  She was comfort for me as a small child when plagued by nightmares in the night, I knew I could always find a save haven tucked in the space between her warm body and wall in her bed, no matter what the hour, without question or judgement, she made room for me.

I know she is at peace, she has always been a remarkable woman, and I don't doubt that it is her time to pass from the world that she has known, hopefully to a place she would like to find herself once gone from this life.

I have to find courage within me, from the courage she always possessed and leant freely, to fight my depression, and find a way to grieve, this, and my other losses, without losing myself.

I still haven't decided whether I want to go to the play party tonight, part of me still wants to go, and just revel in the beauty of people.  That may sound odd, if you're not as big a people loving perv as I am. <smile>.  But really there is a simple joy to be found in watching people be 'free' which seems to occur more readily in the BDSM scene.  I love people, in general, as individuals, and as a concept.  Sometimes the best way to grieve a death is to celebrate life, and death as a part of that cycle on the big wheel.

That's all I'm writing for today.

My grandmother is dying.  My grandmother smelt like love, soon that scent will have dissipated forever, if it hasn't already.

XO
Leila

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