She has Taken her Last Breath
And peacefully fallen asleep
Yes, I am talking about my grandma. The one that got diagnosed with a huge tumor in her head not even three months ago. On Saturday I received the message from my dad.
“Mutter ist eingeschlafen.”
As harmless as he said it, we all knew what it meant. But she passed as peacefully as she wanted it and the way I wished it to her. My grandma took her last breath in her own bed in her own home while my dad and my aunt were holding her hands.
They did not call a doctor because they didn’t want to disturb her peace and silence. They wanted to let her go the way she deserved it. At home. In dignity. And surrounded by family.
My husband says she’s in a better place now. I wish to believe that. But I stopped believing in God years ago. To be exact, when or just after grandpa died.
I was 16 and didn’t really know yet how to handle someone’s death. I obviously knew what it meant when someone dies but nobody told me how painful this can be for the family members.
When he died I believed he was in heaven still looking down on me. Seeing me when I bring flowers to his grave or hearing when I pray at night. After weeks or months, I can’t remember exactly, I got very upset because I realized how believing stole grieving from me. I never grieved his loss. Not the way I wanted it.
My response to it was to completely turn away from religion. I did not believe in God anymore, or anything else. This made further deaths I had to handle over the years harder, but also more real. In my eyes. It was my choice.
It’s been 13 years since my grandpa died. 13 years my grandma lived on. Strong in the belief in God. And strong in her own ability to live alone. She’s not just had her children and grandchildren regularly visiting her, but she also made many friends around herself.
She was strong in her mind, handled her own finances up to the age of 91. She even made her own decision against any treatment when diagnosed with cancer. She did not want to end up in suffering. And she didn’t. Despite knowing the tumor would kill her she had no pain until the very end.
She’s lived a hard but fulfilled life and reached the impressive age of 90 without taking any regular drugs. Her medicine was a spoon full of raw garlic every morning and a glass of wine a day. To be exact, my dad’s wine. My grandma drank every day one glass of red wine. The wine my dad makes every year. And no other.
The diagnosis of the tumor let us, family members prepare for her death. But I don’t think anyone can ever be fully prepared for it. We knew it was coming sooner or later. But it is still hard when it becomes real.
We spend lots of time with her these last two months. We did not leave her alone anymore. There was always someone with her, either one of her children or grandchildren. Day and night. We were there when she wanted a glass of water, when she wanted to get up at 3 a.m. and when she took her last breath.
In the beginning, my husband and I stayed for several days with her. This was when she was still clear in her mind and relatively fit. We walked together to the market where she bought every week her vegetables. It ended up being her last trip to the market.
We played games, laughed together, and went on small excursions in nature.
Then, weeks later, when I came again it all looked very different. She was very much bed-bound and could barely talk anymore. This thing got all of a sudden very real for me. She was diminishing. Now rapidly.
And then after my cousin’s wedding last Friday we went past her home again and visited her. She smiled at me. That was as far as our interaction could go. No more conversations were possible. She was lying in bed. I held her hand. And she smiled at me.
I very well knew it was the last time I would see her. Because I was going to be working the entire of August not having time to visit and because I knew she wouldn’t last long anymore.
As I was standing next to her I could feel my eyes getting wet. I said goodbye and walked out. I did not want my grandma to see me crying. Over losing her. My aunt followed me giving me a hug and saying it’s all fine. She’s there with her.
And I was right. It was my last time seeing her. It all came the way I wished it to her. That she would peacefully pass away. Falling asleep in her own bed. Taking her last breath without any pipes connected to her.
And now she is gone. I would love to believe my husband that she’s in a better place now. She deserves to be in heaven without any doubt. But without me believing in any of that she’s simply “gone”.
Preparing myself for this moment for the last two months didn’t really work. It all came much quicker than expected. And became real all of a sudden. But that is okay. I am allowed to grieve.
I am allowed to grieve over someone I loved. Someone who’s been there since I was born. Someone who had such a big heart and was always there for us, grandchildren.
I am allowed to grieve because we had so many memories together. Or have. I keep those memories. Because she is alive in all of them. I’ll remember her smile. The very last smile she had for me.
And I keep her alive in words. Because words are my religion. I believe in the power of words. For my own processing of the situation. And for her. She’s been a great poet and inspiring in so many ways.
I’ll also write to process my own grieving. While I’m writing this the tears roll down my cheeks. I want to be strong. But my husband says it is okay to cry. Sometimes we need to cry to heal.
Goodbye, grandma.
