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Abstract

yellow sweater with a matching yellow scarf. Why yellow? I can’t wear this to school!My mom and I would pick her up on a Saturday afternoon and stop at McDonald’s for a cheeseburger, the only fast food she would eat. Afterward, we would visit the local library for the large print book section. One day, her purse started leaking ketchup all over. Why did she feel the need to take ketchup packets?As a 12-year-old girl, I thought I knew it all. But I didn’t understand her. Why did she hate doctors? Why didn’t she have a will for life as she grew older?On this beautifully sunny day with no clouds in sight, aunts and uncles gathered in the small hospital room to say their goodbyes. I saw the stress under my mom’s eyes as the sunlight highlighted the dark circles. The nurses were giving my grandmother medication continuously so she would not feel any pain. I wondered why none of my cousins were here. Why did I have to be here? But I knew better to ask such a question.A few hours after our arrival, my grandma began to wake and stir in her hospital bed. My mother moved into position, hovering over her mother, “Mom, are you okay? “Are you in pain? Do you need more medicine?”She didn’t answer my mother. As I felt the pulse of the room shift, I left my sacred spot in the corner to stand on the other side of my grandmother’s bed.Her eyes were like teacup saucers. I had never seen her that alive before. Alert yet peaceful. Content. She seemed to be smiling. Is she smiling? It can’t be. She never liked her smile; she said it was crooked.At that moment, I saw her as a person. Not my grandma. Not my mother’s mother. Not my elder. A strong, radiant human being.She tried to sit up. My mother leaned in further, concerned about her pain level. From my perspective on the side, my grandma was not looking at my mom. Her eyes drifted above my mother. Her eyes opened so wide, like a calm lake on a clear day.She seemed like she wanted to say something, but the moment ceased as she fell back into the bed. The machine next to her bed beeped like a toddler throwing a tantrum. My mother turned the volume down. With tears rolling down her face, my mom told her to go towards the light. The last words spoken to my grandmother.This wasn’t the first time my mom had been in a room with someone dying. I always knew which days were the worst for my mom as a respiratory therapist. When she got home from work, she would prepare her famous fried chicken and mashed potatoes. We would sit at the dining room table and not at the couch. She would ask me about my day and not talk about hers. She once

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told me, “I just tell them to go towards the light. I don’t know what else to do. No one trained me on what to say when I was alone in a room with someone dying.”The nurses working that day respectfully entered back the room. They hugged my mom. I moved back to the corner, feeling the need to move out of everyone’s way. As I looked out that small hospital window up towards the powder blue sky, I imagined my grandma drifting to her peace, to be reunited with her husband she lost forty years prior. Her parents, her siblings. Her loves.Eventually, my mother, the nurses, and other family members huddled in my corner under the embrace of sunshine spilling in. No words were exchanged.After a death, family and friends come together to reminisce about the “good ol’ days.” Old photo albums dusted off, accompanied by stories I had never heard. I barely recognized my grandmother in these black and white photos. We were lucky to have photos of her in her late teens, from the early 1920s, with her awkward smile and all.People from various time periods in her life came together to remember this amazing woman. I learned she hated doctors because, after the birth of her first child, who had a minor physical disability, they warned her not to have any more children. She proved them wrong by having nine more amazing children. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack, leaving her a widow with ten children. She moved her family from a farm in southern Minnesota to the heart of St. Paul in the 1940s.By the time she was in her 70s, she was living alone in an apartment with my mother and me. It took one fall to change her life. She broke her hip and could never walk fully by herself again. Because of her faith, she knew a better place was waiting for her. By the time she was admitted to a nursing home, she was tired and ready to move on.When I look back on that ugly yellow sweater and scarf, I feel my teenage selfishness and my narrow mindset. I don’t know what happened to that sweater, but I still have the baby blanket she knitted for me when I was born. After her death, my mother held onto it. Her tears were absorbed by the still-soft yarn. When my mother passed, I found that baby blanket. Besides a large hole in the center, it was still intact. It now collects my tears when I miss the women that have gone before me.I’m thankful for the moment I watched this amazing woman find her peace in the heavens. Even though I can’t see her physically, I feel her around me and in my dreams, knitting me another yellow sweater for the upcoming winter.— Written by <a href="https://elliejacobson.medium.com/">Ellie Jacobson</a></article></body>

Personal Essay

The Window: A Reflection on the Passage from Life to Death

Getting to know my grandmother after her passing

I knew something was wrong. My mom picked me up halfway through the school day, a sign something serious was happening. This wasn’t going to be a girls’ day ditching school, heading to the mall for shopping and rocky road ice cream.

As I walked into the sterile, off-white hospital room, the glare from the sun streaming in from the rectangular window that didn’t actually open hit me square in the face. The punch pushed me into the space where two nurses attended to my grandmother. Not one head turned to look at me.

My mom explained grandma was transferred from the nursing home to this hospital, where my mother also worked as a respiratory therapist. I was not afraid of hospitals as I spent many hours hanging out in my mom’s office or irritating the department secretary with demands to use the typewriter.

A sign above her bed read “DNR.” My mom explained those letters stood for “do not resuscitate.” I knew those three letters meant something serious, that this could be her time to go. What I didn’t realize was I would be there when it happened.

My grandmother was in a medicine-induced coma, but to me, she looked like Sleeping Beauty, serene under the hospital blankets. The only sound was the clock on the wall clicking as each minute passed. I was supposed to be in 2nd-period geometry class, the worst class in 8th grade. I would have rather been there than here.

Since my earliest memories, my grandma had been in a nursing home. She fell one day, broke her hip, and never left the nursing home. I remember walking into her “home” with the hallway lined with residents sleeping in their wheelchairs. As a young girl, I was afraid a resident would grab me as I hurried by, not understanding their loneliness. I resented her for being in this horrible place and making me visit.

Memories of her prior to the nursing home were scarce, as I was one of her youngest grandchildren. The smell of molasses cookies permeated her small home. Why didn’t she make chocolate chip cookies? She was a master at knitting. One Christmas, she gifted me a knitted yellow sweater with a matching yellow scarf. Why yellow? I can’t wear this to school!

My mom and I would pick her up on a Saturday afternoon and stop at McDonald’s for a cheeseburger, the only fast food she would eat. Afterward, we would visit the local library for the large print book section. One day, her purse started leaking ketchup all over. Why did she feel the need to take ketchup packets?

As a 12-year-old girl, I thought I knew it all. But I didn’t understand her. Why did she hate doctors? Why didn’t she have a will for life as she grew older?

On this beautifully sunny day with no clouds in sight, aunts and uncles gathered in the small hospital room to say their goodbyes. I saw the stress under my mom’s eyes as the sunlight highlighted the dark circles. The nurses were giving my grandmother medication continuously so she would not feel any pain. I wondered why none of my cousins were here. Why did I have to be here? But I knew better to ask such a question.

A few hours after our arrival, my grandma began to wake and stir in her hospital bed. My mother moved into position, hovering over her mother, “Mom, are you okay? “Are you in pain? Do you need more medicine?”

She didn’t answer my mother. As I felt the pulse of the room shift, I left my sacred spot in the corner to stand on the other side of my grandmother’s bed.

Her eyes were like teacup saucers. I had never seen her that alive before. Alert yet peaceful. Content. She seemed to be smiling. Is she smiling? It can’t be. She never liked her smile; she said it was crooked.

At that moment, I saw her as a person. Not my grandma. Not my mother’s mother. Not my elder. A strong, radiant human being.

She tried to sit up. My mother leaned in further, concerned about her pain level. From my perspective on the side, my grandma was not looking at my mom. Her eyes drifted above my mother. Her eyes opened so wide, like a calm lake on a clear day.

She seemed like she wanted to say something, but the moment ceased as she fell back into the bed. The machine next to her bed beeped like a toddler throwing a tantrum. My mother turned the volume down. With tears rolling down her face, my mom told her to go towards the light. The last words spoken to my grandmother.

This wasn’t the first time my mom had been in a room with someone dying. I always knew which days were the worst for my mom as a respiratory therapist. When she got home from work, she would prepare her famous fried chicken and mashed potatoes. We would sit at the dining room table and not at the couch. She would ask me about my day and not talk about hers. She once told me, “I just tell them to go towards the light. I don’t know what else to do. No one trained me on what to say when I was alone in a room with someone dying.”

The nurses working that day respectfully entered back the room. They hugged my mom. I moved back to the corner, feeling the need to move out of everyone’s way. As I looked out that small hospital window up towards the powder blue sky, I imagined my grandma drifting to her peace, to be reunited with her husband she lost forty years prior. Her parents, her siblings. Her loves.

Eventually, my mother, the nurses, and other family members huddled in my corner under the embrace of sunshine spilling in. No words were exchanged.

After a death, family and friends come together to reminisce about the “good ol’ days.” Old photo albums dusted off, accompanied by stories I had never heard. I barely recognized my grandmother in these black and white photos. We were lucky to have photos of her in her late teens, from the early 1920s, with her awkward smile and all.

People from various time periods in her life came together to remember this amazing woman. I learned she hated doctors because, after the birth of her first child, who had a minor physical disability, they warned her not to have any more children. She proved them wrong by having nine more amazing children. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack, leaving her a widow with ten children. She moved her family from a farm in southern Minnesota to the heart of St. Paul in the 1940s.

By the time she was in her 70s, she was living alone in an apartment with my mother and me. It took one fall to change her life. She broke her hip and could never walk fully by herself again. Because of her faith, she knew a better place was waiting for her. By the time she was admitted to a nursing home, she was tired and ready to move on.

When I look back on that ugly yellow sweater and scarf, I feel my teenage selfishness and my narrow mindset. I don’t know what happened to that sweater, but I still have the baby blanket she knitted for me when I was born. After her death, my mother held onto it. Her tears were absorbed by the still-soft yarn. When my mother passed, I found that baby blanket. Besides a large hole in the center, it was still intact. It now collects my tears when I miss the women that have gone before me.

I’m thankful for the moment I watched this amazing woman find her peace in the heavens. Even though I can’t see her physically, I feel her around me and in my dreams, knitting me another yellow sweater for the upcoming winter.

— Written by Ellie Jacobson