A Small Comfort

TW: hospitals, death, grandmas

The last words my grandma ever said to me were, “meow meow meow.”

I was driving home on the 110 South, stuck in the excruciatingly slow lanes where the freeways splits into three other freeways. It was getting dark and the lights of Downtown were blipping on, floor by floor. My car inched closer to the gigantic mural of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra (that’s over 20 years old), and I felt the two violinists nodding to me wisely. They always seemed to understand.

Fun and useless fact! This took over 500 gallons of paint. Which is probably why they never took it down. And now they never can because everyone in LA is too emotionally attached to it.

My grandma was in an assisted living place in North Carolina, worlds away. The irony in her decision to move into the assisted living place was that she was (her words) “ready to die.”

She told me that as she was holding my hand in the hospital. I expected her hand to be cold — she was so pale under her bright pink lipstick — but it was feverishly hot.

We both cried. For a moment, we were alone together in a room full of people discussing what was best for her. She smelled powdery, like Pond’s Cold Cream. Like herself.

Then some pee went through her catheter into the bag attached to the bed and she started giggling. And then I started giggling. And then it turned into half-laughing half-crying.

My grandma had the magic power to change the whole energy of a room, usually wielding some sort of baked good. When she told stories, people listened and laughed at all the right places. Our family cherished her special chocolate chip cookies and lemon cake, only to find out when we read the recipes later that she used Toll House and lemon Jell-o.

It was her. She made them special.

She held my hand again and told me once she went to heaven, she’d come back to visit as my cat. I told her that was a solid choice; I take really good care of my cat. She could lay in the sun and have as many treats as she wanted. We laughed again and it was horrible and wonderful.

When I called her that night, driving home on the 110 South, she sounded peppy. I don’t remember what we talked about, I only remember how she signed off.

“Remember,” she said. I could hear her smile. “I’m coming back as your cat. Meow meow meow!”

And then she hung up.

Her funeral was sad. We were all sad. I was so sad that afterwards, when we went to a Mexican restaurant, I ate so many refried beans that the waiter brought me a free shirt.

But — in the most grandma move ever — she gave me that small comfort, telling me she was okay with whatever comes next.

Sometimes, when I notice Mister luxuriating in a sunbeam, I bring him an extra treat.