Bucking Bronco

This week passed like a week-long final exam for which I didn't study. My grandmother went into the hospital with pulmonary fibrosis slightly more than a month before her 95th birthday. By any measure, a life not cheated by time. But, as would be expected, sadness permeates these occasions, and then tries to make sense of itself.

Let me start by saying my grandmother is one of the few people on the planet that showed me unconditional love, and that I also deeply admired. Dignity, grace, integrity and simple, clean living were the concepts she defined for me. She passed these on to my mother in healthy doses, but Grandma remains the standard by which we will all fail to measure.

So my sadness humbles me by making me reflect on my life and, more shamefully, on my self-absorbed sorrow. Grandma tapped her brakes with glee as my brother and I bounced up and down on her backseat driving through Tampa. She chased us around her house with a stick, playfully threatening us with her weapon as we shrieked in mock fear. She attended the nightclub where my band was playing for her 75th birthday, and stood through the entire Springsteen song after I announced that to the crowd, beaming from ear to ear. She was there through my failed marriages with the forthright example of simply going on the best one can with one's life without the self-pity and drama I pathetically needed. There are too many warm, soft, sweet memories for these pages. And those are just a very few of mine.

And that's my shame. I am a very selfish person, apparently, and am unhappy losing that part of my life. I want her to always be there as the emotional rock and caring safety net. That was part of my life, and I'm crankier than a 3 year-old who has stubbed his toe, sat down crying, and expects to be picked up and rocked through the pain. She would never act this way. She was better.

True, my family was exceedingly fortunate to have someone in our lives of that quality. I fear the fading of my now middle-aged memory, if only for its waning ability to carry the stories and countenance of her for my granddaughter. Yet, I can often see the kindness, faith and resolve of my Grandma in my daughter. That's really good. It may just be a self-serving projection, but I like to think not. The world deserves and, indeed, needs that. I love you, Grandma.