The Daily Times

Dear Granny,

I knew Christmas would be the last time I saw you. I didn’t know I knew, but I did ... somehow.

I was at work Monday when I learned you were gone. My brother didn’t know how to tell me. After all, it’s not an easy thing to say.

I’d known the call was going to come, just not when it’d come. But I knew. You’d been in the nursing home for more than two years, but the last few months were different. Your health was going downhill rapidly.

I’d come in for a couple of days at Christmas, but the visits to the nursing home didn’t go well. The pain and daily life had left you weary.

When I headed back to Maryville, I had this overwhelming, nagging feeling. I needed to see you. I was 30 minutes away, but I turned the car around. Headed back to the nursing home.

I needed to see you. One last time.

Our last day wasn’t any better than the two before, but Mom told me you asked about me the following day. Wanted to know if I’d made it home OK.

You were always doing that. Asking about Granddaddy, worrying he might catch a cold or wasn’t getting enough rest. You’d ask about the rest of us, too. And of course, you asked about Chipper. You loved that cat, even if he was “special” — all right, evil.

When the call came Monday, I was at the office. I broke down.

After running by the apartment, I rushed to Mountain City. Granddaddy and Uncle Steve noted that I made “pretty good time,” both with suspicious glares on their faces. I never told them how fast I drove. Honestly, the speed limit hadn’t mattered. I needed to get there.

Granddaddy hadn’t taken the news well, but he seemed better when I got there.

This September, you two would have been married for 67 years. When you added in the three years of courting, that’s 70 years. I can’t even begin to imagine this simple fact. Seventy years. And, I couldn’t even fathom his grief.

It’s Mom I worry about most, though. She faithfully visited the nursing home every day, unless weather or sickness prevented it. There’s a special bond between a mother and daughter, one that sickness, distance or any other factor can’t destroy.

People started coming Monday night to pay their respects, but the real flood happened on Tuesday. And almost everyone brought a covered dish. It was exhausting, but at the same time, the show of support showed how much people thought of you and Granddaddy.

A few people came Wednesday morning, but thankfully there weren’t many. The funeral was set for that afternoon, and I didn’t think we could handle many well-wishers.

As they offered their condolences, I noticed a common thread. You were in a better place.

Through it all, I was trying to prepare myself. The finality. How do I say goodbye?

Nothing prepares you for this simple question. I’ve never said goodbye to someone close.

However, I had to hold it together. I had to be strong for Mom. She needed me.

We had a private family viewing. My tough demeanor started crumbling.

Luckily, Chad was around and stepped in each time I started falling apart. He’d worked to stay strong for Mom, too, and wasn’t going to let his little sister break down.

Things were rough, though. People, lots of people, tears.

... The casket was pretty. You would have liked it, all white with pink accents. It was perfect. You would have liked the services, too. They were simple and brief, which is what you wanted.

When the call came Monday I wasn’t ready. I know that now. I guess I never would have been, though.

I’m not the only one with these thoughts and feelings. We’re all left with tears running down our faces, as we try to find something to make the pain stop. But we’re going to be OK, Granny.

And, I know you’d be fussing that we’re upset. So, I’ll tell you that we’re going to be OK. I believe that. I really do.

And one day, we’re going to see you again. I believe that, too.

Until that day comes, I know you’ll be keeping an eye on us. You’re gone but will never be forgotten. And, we’ll love you always.

Miss you already, Amanda.

Amanda Greever can be reached at 981-1161 or (amanda.greever@thedailytimes.com)

You must be logged in to Facebook to comment. If you're not logged in to Facebook, a login window will open when you click "comment". Or you can log in now. You may need to refresh your page after logging in via that link.