A casket about to be lowered into the ground. by foundphotoslj
She was my grandmother, my father's mother, and anyone who knew her would have said she was one of the sweetest individuals. Nothing but love poured out of this woman. Yet, she endured a sober misery that slowly sealed her fate, that slowly ensured her way out of this world was likely to come from succumbing to the mental pain and anguish she was experiencing.
The funeral was the first funeral I participated in. It will
undoubtedly not be the last funeral I am involved in. So, I consider this a
note to my self and others, a lesson, which deaths have a way of teaching.
My girlfriend was kind enough to be with me for the funeral. She had not met my grandmother but her love for me was great enough to know I wanted her to be with me. Her presence was a pain buffer, a person there to divert my attention away from the pain (although that's not why she came with me).
I was in Chicago when my grandmother died. I returned home to Mishawaka, IN, a small town outside of South Bend (where Notre Dame University is located) to say goodbye. Except, I wasn't going to really get to say goodbye. None of us were. She was dead. She had died in a nursing home and I had received the phone call Thursday morning.
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