The whole experience was tragically beautiful, like a well written poem, that moves you deep within your soul, bringing up emotions that are forgotten on a day to day basis. I spent most of my time with her, sitting quiet at her side, memorizing her hands. My grandmothers hands are truly symbolic to me, they represent her strength and her warmth. With those hands she has nursed many people, raised 4 children, grown thousands of beautiful flowers, baked hundreds of pies, knitted countless items, and when ever I was over, those hands would warm my cold feet. I was afraid to go and see her in her final moments, the only other experience I had was with my moms mom, and she was in a coma in the hospital.
It was an entirely different experience, it taught me so much about the strength of my own father, and his siblings. I watched as they took shifts, and came together putting themselves aside. I watched them fall apart, and pick themselves up and do it all over again. I watched them pour coffee after coffee, each cup going cold, chain smoking, praying, pacing, the occasional laugh, the four of them looking beaten and worn. It brought on the realization that one day that will be me, with only my brother to help. It made me wish for more siblings, but that is never going to happen now ;).