Sometimes You Just Can't Think Of A Title.

My grandma died this morning at 4:10 AM CET. I learned about it 20 minutes later and drove up to the hospital.

I feel like writing this down somewhere, and this seems like the appropriate group for that.

My grandmother played a particularly strong role in the last 29 years of my life. Which are so far the only 29 years of my life.

Some might find it ridicoulos that a grown man hangs on his grandma that much, but if you knew the kind of relationship we had, you might just change your mind.

You see, I am the first and oldest of her grandchildren. And given the fact that she only had 2 daughters I kinda became the son she never had. And since both my parents had to work in the early years of my life, it was her that raised me, so she also kinda played a mother's role in my life without ever replacing my actual mother.

She would walk from her house to ours in the morning, which was like a 2 km walk through different terrain, just to come and watch me in the mornings until I was old enough to go to kindergarten. In the afternoon, she'd hike back if my parents were unable to give her a lift.

Later, during my school years, I often felt like the only one who really understands my feelings was my grandmother. Later, after my graduation, as the marriage between my parents turned sour (and it has been sour for more than 10 years or so) she seemed to be the only one to give both of them a good proverbial asskickin' to set them straight.

Her hip had given out around 15 years back, and during the last couple of years, walking was exhausting for her.

About 4 years ago, the only way she was getting out of the house was in a wheelchair, and that not very often. Her health condition went downhill from there, soon there were problems with her lungs, then her heart, then her knee, then her stomach... I had taken it up to myself, and my wife took it up to ourselves as well, to look after her as good as we possibly could.

Around 2 weeks ago, her back started to give out. First she refused medical treatment, because her primary physician was on vacation and she didn't trust her substitude. Although we were insisting, there was nothing we could do to persuade her to get medical help.

Monday things were so bad we had to put her into the hospital. I only could visit her yesterday because I had too much stuff to do on monday. However, yesterday she was sound asleep and I couldn't wake her. I kinda knew then that the final buzzer had sounded, even though I was reluctant to admit it. Heck, I am still reluctant to believe that she has passed on.

But she has.

A huge part of me is actually happy that after all her pain and suffering Grandma just simply went asleep as peacefully as she has. But the other part of me is that freckled-faced young kid who needs his Oma.

So, for right now, that advise-giver that was always there for me is no longer available. Not until my final buzzer sounds and I meet her again at the Gates of Heaven or Valhalla or Sto'Vo'Kor or whatever awaits us after this life.

As for now, I sure miss her already and I guess I always will. But part of her lives on - in the experience and values she has taught her kids and grandkids.

There is a shrubbery right in front of my house. I bought this house last year off my mother, and it is the house grandma was raised in. Grandma gave that shrub to my great-grandmother some 40 years ago, and it hasn't died, it still blooms fully every summer. And this shrub is there to stay.

As for me, yes, I might be sad. Actually, while I was writing this I cried for the first time about her death. And yet, her disappearance might leave a hole in my life that might be impossible to fill.

But in the end, she lived a long life, survived the great atrocity called WWII, helped rebuilding this country to what it is today, and served proudly in the town council for multiple years. That proud, but gentile, stubborn but wise old lady is and will always remain my grandmother and a part of me, as sure as I will always be her little Lausbua.

I shall not mourn her death. I shall celebrate her life.
Kletti Kletti
Sep 12, 2012