My last grandparent, my grandmother, died yesterday. She was 99 1/2 years old. We had hoped she would make it to July for her 100th birthday, but she had other plans.
My Dad called me last night and I almost didn't pick up. After our last conversation (where he made a comment about my weight) I wasn't sure I was up to another phone call. I'm not sure why I picked up, since I have no problem screening calls, but I did. He told me that she had passed away at home. It was a very awkward conversation that meandered through a bunch of subjects before we had the nerve to adress what to do next.
My sister and I are the geographically closest relatives that are able to make decisions. My Aunt Sissie lived in the same area as my grandmother, but she has downs syndrome, so is not able to take care of the paperwork, etc. I asked my dad to clear the way for me to make a quick trip up north to go through her house and remove any family pictures, records, bibles, or other things she or my grandfather may have made. The sentimental things. Apparently the caretaker was given the house, which is fine by me.
I knew my grandmother's health was failing. I expected this phone call for the past couple of years. I just dread the next few days. I'll have to go up to the tiny town she lived in (gas station and convenience store only) and poke around in her stuff. Even in death she still intimidates me so that I feel like some twisted voyeur doing this. I may even have to pick up her urn so that the family can decide what to do with her ashes. It's pretty creepy.
I would never have thought her death would affect me this much. I spent pretty much all of my life trying to avoid her or survive the mandatory visits with her. I don't feel relieved to have that over with. I miss it.
