When That Hourglass Finally Cracks
I’m wearing blue to the funeral. Not a dark navy blue to blend in with the sea of mournful blacks. Not even a royal blue to mimic the sadness that floods each of our hearts. No, I’m wearing a robin’s egg blue dress.
“I don’t want to be sad today,” I tell my mother.
Of course, it doesn’t work. The fact that I’m wearing blue instead of black doesn’t change the fact that my grandmother is dead.
I watch my mom pop a Xanax and chase it with a swig of water. She turns to me with an open palm and a small white pill in the center of it.
I shake my head, declining her offer.
She puts the bottle in her purse and we step into the funeral home.
❧
Most of the family has already arrived. My aunts and uncles stand at the front of the room of wooden pews and converse softly. Uncle David whispers something to Aunt Melanie. Aunt Cindi dabs her eyes with a tissue.
The pale yellow walls are meant to lighten the mood or even invoke a feeling of happiness; instead they send a wave of nausea through me. If they were hoping for a ‘happy’ yellow color, this particular shade was perhaps not the best option. The pungent smell of lilies and roses attacks my nose with the ferocity of poison gas. It’s funny how,in a garden, the smell of flowers is delightful. Serene. But put those same flowers in a funeral home to cover the looming scent of death, and they are nearly insufferable. I look around at the countless floral arrangements that line the walls.
There should be hydrangeas, I think.
Grandma had a pink hydrangea bush that framed her mailbox outside her house. My mom called them her ‘ugly flowers,’ but Grandma and I liked them. Granted, I liked everything about Grandma’s house. Her fenced-in backyard was overgrown with leaves my father raked weekly and honeysuckle he didn’t dare touch. The porch consisted of wood that was rotted for as long as I could remember and I don’t think ever got fixed. The hallway that led from her living room to the bathroom and bedrooms was tight, even for a little girl such as myself. However, despite the cramped nature of the house, it felt cozy. Perhaps because it was Grandma’s house.
I visited Grandma’s house at least once a week. If not, she came to us. However, I preferred going to Grandma’s because that’s where the strawberry juice was. Grandma would get a powdered red drink mix from her pantry and plop a few spoonfuls into a cup of water – always the same cup: a dusty blue cup with a cartoon image of an angel printed on one side. She would place the cup in front of me as I sat at her dining room table, I would use both of my tiny hands to bring the cup to my lips and I would guzzle it down until I sported a red mustache on my upper lip.
The sound of sniffling brings me back to the present, and I turn to see my Nana Rose, Grandma’s sister, holding my Aunt Cindi in a tearful embrace. Rose turns to the TV that plays a slideshow of images on a loop.
“Patsy would have loved seeing all these pictures,” she mutters, her voice thick with emotion.
Grandma Patsy was the only grandparent I ever knew. Of course, I didn’t call her Grandma Patsy like my cousins did. She was Grandma. I didn’t have any other grandmother to get her confused with; all of my other grandparents either died before I was born or didn’t live long enough to make a lasting impact. I never really saw it as a bad thing, or even a sad thing, until I had no grandparents before I entered high school. Growing up, Grandma was all I needed.
She would alternate staying at each child’s house for Christmas Eve, and Christmas was always better with Grandma there to laugh while I ripped open presents, one of which was always a personalized cross stitch ornament she completed for everyone in the family each year without fail. She never missed a school event or a birthday.
Until one day she forgot how to start her car.
My mom and I had come home from school to my father clenching his jaw.
“Your mom called me today,” he said to my mom. “She said she couldn’t get her key in the ignition.”
Mom furrowed her eyebrows. “What was wrong with it?”
Dad shrugged. “Nothing. I drove over there and tried it myself and it worked just fine.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She forgot she had to push the key in before she turned it.”
I’m not sure how many months passed before she was officially diagnosed with dementia. Everything started to blur together. Some days were better than others, and it seemed like her memory lapses were a common side effect of the illness that is aging. Other days, however, she would forget something we told her only twenty minutes prior.
❧
My mom places a hand on my shoulder, snapping me out of my thoughts. She motions towards the open casket I had avoided eye contact with since we had entered the room.
“You want to see her?” she asks.
No, I think. But despite my better judgment, I nod.
As I peer into the casket, I look for my Grandma. I don’t find her. There is a very pretty woman that looks like my Grandma. She has the same short, white hair that was cut just above her ears and the same fragile hands folded over her chest. But something about her face is…different. White makeup coats her face and covers her wrinkles. Pink lipstick and unnatural pink blush powder on her cheeks. It was as if someone who had only seen my Grandma a couple of times tried to make a wax figure of her from memory.
My mom and I exchanged glances.
“That’s not Grandma,” she says.
I shake my head. No. No, it isn’t.
❧
Though, to be fair, I hadn’t seen the Grandma I remembered in a very long time. Once the dementia hit, things started changing. She moved out of her house and into my aunt’s house so she wasn’t living alone. That worked out well until Grandma tripped over her own feet and fell down the stairs. They said she had a minor stroke. Even though she eventually made it to the bottom of the stairs, it felt like she never stopped falling. Everything that had slowly begun changing suddenly began happening all at once. Dementia turned into Alzheimer’s. It was no longer safe for her to live in a house with multiple stories, even if she was under constant supervision. So, my Mom and her siblings decided it was best that she moved into an assisted living facility.
It was, honestly, a lovely place to live. While I was expecting a stark white, cold, cleaning=chemical-filled building with hospital beds, I was pleasantly surprised by her one-bedroom apartment with blush pink walls and warm tan carpet. She had a couch, a TV, a bed, a small dining room, and a bathroom. The only thing that reminded me that we were in a place specifically designed for the elderly was the red “Pull for help” string next to the toilet. The bottom floor had a common area where she ate her meals at what looked like a fancy restaurant. There was a grand piano where guests would play private recitals for the residents. The employees hosted craft days where Grandma could get her creative juices flowing, and movie showings where she could meet people her age and watch some of her favorite films alongside them. They even had a chapel for her to attend church services and build her faith — one thing she never managed to forget.
It was very nice considering the circumstances. However, the longer Grandma lived there, the farther her memory slipped.
❧
By the time the actual funeral service starts, my feet ache from standing. I have never been on the family side of a funeral before, and I decide I don’t like it. It’s two hours of standing up by a large portrait of your recently deceased loved one with a bunch of strangers coming up to you and shaking your hand while assuring you they were great friends with the one in the casket and they will be missed. You can only hear a certain amount of “I’m sorry for your loss” before it starts to lose its meaning.
The pastor, Russ, stands at the front of the room, next to the casket that houses the woman that looks vaguely like my Grandma and takes a deep breath. He had been my Grandma’s pastor for a few decades at this point, so he knew her well. He gives the usual funeral spiel.
“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Patricia Jordan. However, some of us knew her as Grandma or Mom. And most of us knew her as Patsy.”
He goes on to describe how strong she was in her faith, how loyal of a friend she was, and how she never let anyone feel unloved.
“Patsy had a life full of joy. She was known for her infectious laugh and thoughtful gifts. Unfortunately, the end of her life was not as peaceful as we had hoped for her. I’m glad her memory is restored with her Heavenly Father.”
❧
One day, she had looked at us with fear flooding her eyes when Mom and I entered her apartment.
“There’s a man in my shower,” she said plainly.
Mom sighed. “No, there’s not, Mom.”
Grandma nodded frantically. “There is. I can hear him talking. There’s a man in my shower.”
Mom took Grandma by the hand and led her into the bathroom. She pulled back the shower curtain.
“See? No man.”
Grandma shook her head. “He’s gone, but he was in there. I heard him talking.”
At the time, we thought it was just Alzheimer’s creating anxiety-ridden delusions in her brain. We found out later that the janitor’s closet was right next to her apartment, sharing a wall with her shower. She was hearing a man, she just didn’t know where he was.
As we left that day, my mom stopped by the front desk, subtly handing the woman who sat behind a computer a bundle of silverware from the dining room.
“It was in her drawer again,” Mom whispered. The woman offered a humored smile.
The moment I realized things were truly bad, it was dark. It was noon, and it was dark. We entered the apartment and every light was turned off. The curtains in both the living room and bedroom were pulled, and Grandma still lay in her bed, pajamas on, sheets up to her chin. I couldn’t walk farther than the living room. I couldn’t make myself. I plopped down on the couch and fiddled with my fingers and chewed my bottom lip. I heard my mom mutter inaudible things from the other room. A few minutes later, I saw movement. My mom held my Grandma’s arm gently and led her to the bathroom. As she passed by the doorway, we locked eyes. Grandma, who cross-stitched me a personalized ornament every Christmas, who never missed a school event, who let me use her special crayons, looked me in the eyes and hadn’t the faintest idea as to who I was.
That’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt, I think. Looking a loved one in the eyes and knowing they don’t recognize you. I dropped my eyes to my lap and took in a shuddery breath.
She still had good days and bad days, though her good days tended to look worse than what her bad days once were. She began to ask when J.D. was coming home from the store. J.D. was her husband. He died before my Mom even met my Dad.
❧
“I know that she’s up there right now, dancing with J.D. once again,” the pastor says.
My mom chuckles and brings a tissue up to her tearful eyes.
He sighs and continues, “Though we know she is grateful to be out of suffering and into peace, we will miss her love and friendship dearly.”
The corners of my mouth quirk up into a small smile. I haven’t heard her laugh or seen her smile in months, but she granted me one last conversation before she left:
Near the end of her life, when good days were as rare as a shooting star, my mom and her siblings decided to take her out of the assisted living facility to live back with my Aunt Melanie. She hadn’t recognized anyone for months at this point. She spent most of her day in bed having meals brought up to her. We knew it was almost over.
And then Easter happened.
Easter was special to Grandma. When I was little, she would make my cousin Kaitlyn and I matching dresses every year for Easter. Of course, that hadn’t happened in a while by this point, but for the first time in God knows how long, Grandma sat upright in the dining room. She watched the people flutter in and out of the kitchen, hurrying to get Easter lunch ready to eat. I sat beside her silently. I never talked to Grandma anymore. She never responded, so what was the point?
As she looked around, her eyes landed on me. Her eyes widened and she gasped.
“Hey, sweetie! How are you?” she asked.
My heart leaped into my throat. She recognized me. I could tell she didn’t know my name. She didn’t know exactly who I was, but she knew she loved me.
I smiled. “Good.”
She patted my hand. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
I swallowed the rock in my throat. “I know.”
“Well, it’s good to see you.”
That night, she went to bed and didn’t get back up. For days, she laid in that bed, refusing to get up, refusing to eat. For at least a few days, she would open her eyes and go to the bathroom. But then, she wouldn’t get up at all.
The pastor prays and sits down in a pew while my cousin Jessica gets to her feet and takes his place. She glances back at the casket and swallows before beginning to sing. “Amazing Grace.” One of Grandma’s favorite hymns.
I had heard the song not long ago, when we were all circling Grandma’s bed as she lay in a coma, unwilling to open her eyes.
Jessica had sung the same song. Even though she hadn’t moved in days, her foot began to tap to the beat.
My mom, dad, and I were sitting on the couch waiting for it when the phone rang.
She was gone. We cried together in a ball on the couch. Though, selfishly, we all felt a sort of relief. It was over. I never had to go to Grandma’s again.
❧
I never get to go to Grandma’s again.
❧
They say grief is like an ocean, rushing in fast and drowning you until the waves recede, if only for a day or two, before it rushes over you again. For me, grief was like an hourglass. I sat at the bottom of the glass, watching the sand descend over me. The sand began to fall as she began to lose her memory. Slow. Steady. By the time she moved into an assisted living facility, it was up to my knees. She forgot my name and the sand trickled into my throat, choking me as I gasped for air. The desperation of missing the Grandma I once knew combined with the guilt I felt every time I couldn’t make myself visit her swallowed me whole, burying me in hot, coarse sand. And then she died. And the hourglass shattered. I could breathe. But even though the sand was no longer killing me, it surrounded me still, broken glass intertwined.
As the service finally comes to a close, I watch my cousins close the casket and carry it to the hearse. The drive to the graveside is dreadfully long. Although, maybe it isn’t long at all, but the looming end of it all makes the anticipation miserable. We finally pull into the graveyard, a place I have been to countless times to bring flowers to Grandpa J.D.’s grave. However, every other time I’ve been here, Grandma would open my car door and walk through the grass with me.
The pastor says a few more words that I can’t distinguish from the rushing of blood in my ears. Then, they lower her into the ground. One by one, people step forward and drop shovels full of dirt onto the casket, burying Grandma the same way the sand buried me in that hourglass. Slow. Suffocating. And then suddenly, I can’t see the casket any more. All I see is dirt. All I have left of the casket is a memory.
I link arms with my mom as we walk back to the car and leave Grandma behind.
❧
Memories continue to flash through my thoughts as I walk. Luckily, grief has a funny way of blocking out terrible memories. Most memories of my Grandma the last few years of her life fade away, and are replaced by memories of strawberry juice in cheesy screen-printed cups. Memories of her cackling every time we rode the River Rampage at Dollywood, even if no one got that wet. Memories of us watching an orb weaver spider make an intricate web on the side of her house. Memories of her holding my hand as I flew in a plane for the first time. Memories of us watching butterflies dance around the hydrangea bush that grew beside her mailbox.
Suddenly, a butterfly flutters by my head and flutters around me. And as that butterfly flies past, I know Grandma remembers me, too.
Lauren Gaines is a senior at Maryville College, TN, and will be graduating with a dual degree in Writing Communications and Design. She has previously been published in Maryville College’s Impressions Literary Magazine where she has worked as Prose Editor and Editor in Chief. She is drawn to writing the complexities of the human experience, seeking to unravel our deepest fears and desires. Her writing serves as a conduit, translating the ineffable into prose that is not only digestible but also emotionally resonant. When not writing or creating, she can be found spending time with her friends or her dog, Daisy Mae..
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