To the Woman Who Held My Grandmother as She Died

Your simple act of love still moves me today.

You probably don’t remember me. My grandmother, Mary, died in your arms on December 23, 2019.

My grandmother was a quiet, remarkable woman. She raised four children she loved and never really cared for cooking or cleaning much. She was universally likable. In her 20’s, she worked as a flight attendant for TWA. She had to quit when she married my grandfather and no longer met the qualifications for flight attendants in the 1940’s.

My grandmother was present at my viola recitals, my swim meets, and my graduations. She was too weak to fly to my wedding, but I wore her ring that day. She always loved when I called her Grandmary, like Samantha called her grandmother in the American Girl books.

When my grandmother turned 90, I made a big scrapbook for her filled with pictures and letters from everyone who loved her. All of us wrote something to her, including her friends from her flight attendant days who were approaching 90 themselves. My grandmother cherished this book, and she kept it by her bedside.

By December of 2019, just a few months before the world began to shut down with COVID, my grandmother had gotten weaker with pulmonary hypertension. She had been living in the nursing home for several years, graduating over time from a condo to assisted living to full-time care.

She was approaching 98 years old and still mentally sharp enough to laugh at my jokes and wink at me when I visited her. I brought both of my baby boys to the nursing home to meet her over the years, and she loved playing with their little toes and fingers.

The day before you held my grandmother while she died, my family was busy preparing for our trip to Chicago for Christmas. I was neatly folding little boys’ sweatpants and socks and placing Matchbox cars in ziplock bags to play with on the plane.

My mother had called to say that things were getting worse, and that she and my uncle had been by her side all day. My uncle had whispered his goodbyes in her ear and thanked her for being his mom.

I thought I would have time to do the same the following morning, as my flight didn’t arrive until late that night.

We arrived that night at O’Hare airport, carrying both boys asleep in our arms from the car and putting them to bed in my parents’ house. I had planned to head to the nursing home first thing that morning. But before I could leave, we received the call from the home at 7 AM.

The kind social worker told my mother that my grandmother had died peacefully that morning in your arms. My mother and I got dressed as quickly as possibly, both numb to the news.

I had never seen a dead person in real life before. I hesitated at the door to her room, not knowing what I would find. Yet when we entered I was surprised by what I saw.

The room was dim. My grandmother lay motionless in bed, her hair combed and smoothed across her forehead, her arms beneath her blanket. Her mouth was agape in a way that looked like she was deeply sleeping. I remember feeling slightly embarrassed for her and wanting to close it.

But you were there too, sitting quietly in the corner in her reading chair.

You told us that she had died in your arms a short time before, while you were bathing her in bed. You had noticed her breathing become strained, and you gently lay her back and made sure she was comfortable.

“I didn’t want to leave her alone until you got here, so I finished cleaning her and stayed in the room,” you explained.

I was and still am overwhelmed by this profound act of love that you gave to my grandmother in her final moments.

You barely knew us, and you barely knew her. And yet you combed her hair and lay her arms just right and waited patiently in the corner of her room until we could arrive to be with her. You kept her company, and you continued to honor her even after she had passed away.

You didn’t have to do that, but you did.

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