Dear Mom-Mom,
Four weekends ago we celebrated my birthday. We ate yummy food, talked, and laughed, but you didn't quite seem like yourself. When it came time to say goodbye, I gave you a big hug and smooch and told you I'd see you soon.
Three weekends ago, just one day after my actual birthday, you called Dad and said you didn't feel well. You complained of chest pains and felt scared you were having a heart attack. Test after test came back negative. We thought you were in the clear and were so relieved to hear you'd be coming back home after three nights in the hospital.
But then the doctor decided to do a cat scan at the last minute. And that test finally showed something. Deep down in your lungs there were some spots, and those spots were pneumonia.
We were told not to worry. A few days in the hospital and some antibiotics would clear the pneumonia right up.
A few days passed. On the first Friday you were in the hospital, you were having a harder time breathing. Your doctor asked a very routine, but very scary question: "Do you want to be resuscitated should your heart stop?" Being wise and knowing you'd lived a long and beautiful life already, you said you did not.
But the seed had been planted and you were branded with a fuchsia "DNR" bracelet. You were scared and, convinced you were at the end of your life, you talked about your life with my dad and said your goodbyes.
Now the family was scared, too. We all rallied together. Aunt Karen came from Vanceboro. I came from Asheville. We talked and laughed and probably nearly got kicked out of the cardiovascular wing your room was on (we are, at times, a raucous bunch). By the time I came back to Asheville that Sunday, one week into your hospital stay, I knew you were going to be okay. When we said goodbye and I told you I'd see you in a few weeks, you still said, "I hope I'll be around for you!"
A few more days went by--some good and some bad, but nothing to really worry about. By the next weekend, though, you were really having a hard time breathing and it was decided you should be moved to ICU. As the days went by after that, things did not get much better.
I came home the middle of last week because we were beginning to face the facts: you might not get better. For a few precious minutes, you were awake and alert. We held hands and you looked from me to my cousin and back to me and you smiled. I could barely hold it together, Mom-Mom, but I'm so glad I came home and was able to have that moment with you. From that afternoon on, you were asleep, already on your way to heaven I think.
I quickly came back to Asheville to work for one day, but then came back to see you and to be with family, knowing it probably would not be long until you and Pop-Pop were together again.
You were physically alive when I arrived, but your spirit and mind were not there. You were knocked out on a cocktail of medicines to simply keep you comfortable. There was no physical healing that would come.
You passed away late in the afternoon, around 5:30 p.m. Dawn and Aunt Karen said they saw you smile toward the end. I hope you were seeing Pop-Pop and your family. Did you see Jesus?
We're all doing okay here. We are all still laughing and joking around a lot, but it is not the same without you. I still call the house you lived "Mom-Mom's house" and your room is still your room and your bathroom is still your bathroom. Your seat at the head of the table in the dining room is still yours and I got a little angry at Hanna when her 11-year-old self bounced down to the seat and took it over.
I do wonder what this Thanksgiving and Christmas will be like. Will we all still go to your condo?
One thing I do know: Christmas morning will be lonely and quiet without you. We've spent every Christmas day together since 1998. Mom-Mom, I will miss you so much.
You never were that warm, fuzzy grandma with fresh baked cookies in the kitchen. You were always kind of...arthritic and a bit slow. But you could shop like nobody's business. And you were brave and a fighter. You were always there for your family no matter what. And you could laugh. You could laugh with us and you could laugh at yourself. I love and admire that in you. I think I will miss your laugh the most.
I know that you will always be here with us in a way, like when we watch a movie together as a family or eat a yummy meal or see a butterfly flutter about, and especially any time we laugh.
You are the ultimate Golden Girl, Mom-Mom, and I love you so very much. I will miss you every day, but I know you are happy to be with Pop-Pop. And I especially know he's happy you're with him.
Love you forever,
Your granddaughter, Katie
