Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love.
“Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”, J.K. Rowling
My grandmother died early this morning. She would have been 89 next Saturday but I guess this time we’ll just light a candle with no cake underneath.
89 years is a lot and time definitely took its toll on her. Maybe we could still have had a celebration next Saturday instead of a funeral on the upcoming weekend, had she not stumbled in her own home and broken her hip. She was taken to the hospital and operated on but in the end it didn’t go all that well and words like “internal bleeding” were involved, so… yeah. Her mind was getting all scrambled, too, even more than before, so perhaps death was almost a kindness at this point. I know my paternal grandmother used to pray for death while she lay in her bed, completely paralyzed from the neck down. She finally died at the age of 94 but had to endure five agonizing bedridden years before that moment of release. My grandfather died at the age of 84, all alone in his apartment, and was discovered only after my mom got anxious that he hadn’t picked up his phone for two days. I never met my paternal grandfather, since he died before I was born. Both of my “step-grandparents” have also been dead for a while now, so I guess that’s that then.
I’m not terribly heartbroken, death is a part of life and it happens to all of us eventually, especially so when it comes to the elderly. I’m more worried about the implications this event has on my mother and her living arrangements – will she continue to reside in grandma’s apartment and pay for the communal charges? Will she return to living with my father? It’s a big can of worms either way. I know it’s not my problem to fix but I’m slightly anxious about it nevertheless.