The past few times I dropped her off and walked her back to her apartment, there was a bit of sadness in her eyes amongst the confusion that strokes are notorious for. I think it was a realization that she had lost the sharpness she had once had, and was never going to get it back. But she put on the best brave face she could, and tried to hide it from the whole family, most of whom were adequately convinced.
Born in Holland in 1924, she lived there during the war, and told stories when I was a kid of soldiers marching through their farm field, and aiding downed Allied pilots. She married an older man, with 8 children from a wife previously passed that she took to be her own, and treated them that way until the day she died. My grandfather himself died when my mother was only 4. Ultimately, my grandmother raised 12 children, as well as assisting in a great way both myself and moreso my brother in the drama that was brought on by my own father as part of our parents' divorce.
She infact lived with us at the time my brother was born; at the age of 67 still waking up at 5am every morning to go in to work at the local necktie factory. At 7 years old at that point, I would sneak into her room at night to stay up and watch the old black and white movies that were less about the movie and more about the staying up late for me at that point. Some nights she would pretend not to notice, or pretend that I was asleep, but most others she'd let me in on her late night Melba toast and cheese snack.
Moving ahead seven or eight years later, she took on the role of chauffeur and almost second-mom after my dad bailed with our family vehicle, leaving her to drive my mother to work for long hours, myself to school on the way, and housing and feeding my brother during the school week. And then, not long after my brother started spending more time back at home with some replenished normalcy to all of our everyday lives, she had her stroke (infact the largest of a suspected numerous small ones). And, as I mentioned, things were just never quite the same.
There's a time for all of us in the end, and my grandmother certainly lived a beautiful life before hers. Should there be truth to tales of angels looking over one's shoulder, I expect she's there now. Its easy to see how that concept makes dealing with death easier for some at least.
'Now that its over, rest your head'