preface
I visited Sophie Calle’s show at the Walker shortly after my dear grandpa died in early winter, and in stereotypical but cathartic form, I began to cry while standing before her works about grief, particularly her writing on last words (figure #1). I sent it to my still-living and grieving grandma.
“Where did you get this and who wrote it?”
“This is from the Sophie Calle exhibition I told you about,” I replied.
And she said, “We’ll have to find a time to go.” Her health declined before we could.
My grandpa’s final days were not conversational. He was not lucid, and there was no room for last words. My grandma passed away on March 16th, less than four months after he did, but with alertness until just before her end. I felt lucky to soak in a collection of last words. Everything she said — in her final days and all the days before — clearly yet subtly captured the beauty of her inner world. Every quick comment was very her, reflecting how she lived artfully, thoughtfully, lovingly, and with this self-assured softness.
Like the physical objects she left behind, her words offer a glimpse into her precious, personal realm. Here is a sampling of her concluding wisdoms, spoken after she decided to enter hospice.
words
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March 12th, afternoon: “This is nature’s way. I know I can’t go back to any person that I was.”
She accepted and embraced each moment.
The last thing I did before I got the call that she was dying was jump into the deep end of Balmorhea State Park's spring-fed swimming pool. A chilly pool filled with fish and ducks.
The swim was a decision to seize the day while on vacation. There will come a time when I won’t be able to return to this version of myself who can swim and who can mingle with these fish under the West Texas sun. My inner princess tends to avoid swimming unless the water is indulgently warm and devoid of fish that might nip at me. But I swam, I basked, I felt proud of my small act of courage motivated by presence, I dried off in a state of bliss, and I learned that my grandma was dying. I traveled home to her.
Maybe it was her spirit that urged me to dive in while I could. Regardless, in retrospect, this was perfect. She always inspired me to live and feel the way I did in that pool.
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March 13th, evening: “I have these old records where they’re singing in Spanish, and I realized, I never played these for Eva.”
She voiced quietly sincere comments and questions that signaled her investment in my every interest.
I loved studying Spanish in school and through time abroad. She loved this love, and my love for travel, and also my love for immersing in her own nostalgia — her records, her vintage clothing, her figure drawings from the 70s and 80s, her photo albums from past decades.
I told her I’d find the records and listen on my own, soon, and think of her.
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March 14th, afternoon: “I remember your nebulizer.”
While she honored her own needs, she was a true caregiver.
I had a severe case of pneumonia at age 12. After a nebulizer helped her out of a momentary but scary spell of breathlessness in her final days, she jumped to recall my difficulty breathing from more than a decade ago, instead of dwelling on her own labored breathing in the present.
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March 14th, evening: “Tomorrow is the Ides of March.”
She was an English major and a History minor who operated with a literary undercurrent, and she found meaning in small things.
I was so amused by this remark. Only she would think of this at a time like that. I wondered if she would pass the following day, the 15th, the Ides of March, the day that marked Julius Caesar’s assassination, as some kind of literary nod.
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March 15th, about 2:30 am: “I think I’m ready.”
She was so in tune with herself.
I slept next to her in hospice, and in the middle of the night, after recovering from another spell of breathlessness, she communicated this readiness. Physical signs indicated that she had time, but I didn’t take this statement lightly and called my family in case it really was the end.
They came, and we sat around her in the dimly lit room, expressing our love for her in her still-lucid state. She ultimately fell back asleep, and I did too, and my family went home until the morning — but when they returned, she was no longer lucid, and, with total peace, progressing quickly.
She knew, at this middle-of-the-night hour, that she was embarking on a leap forward in her transition. She knew, and she was able to pinpoint her knowing, and in doing so out loud, she gifted my family one last collective conversation, a chance to say all the things.
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March 15th, morning: “Did you get back to sleep okay?”
She really was a true caregiver.
After the sun came up, about an hour before her lucidity officially and permanently faded, it was just her and me. She struggled to speak much more than in the middle of the night, yet she mustered up the energy to express concern for my own rest, hoping that our 2:30 am congregation hadn’t taken a toll. It hadn’t, of course. It was priceless, and well worth the lost sleep.
closing
These last words are portals to her, but they’re also morsels of our connection, which looks different now, but isn’t gone. From here, I will live in her words and the essence, her essence, that fueled them. I will inherit and absorb the memory of her inner world, and let it continue to charge mine.
❤️
Oh Eva </3 this is absolutely beautiful and moved me to tears. Thank you for sharing the love you have for your grandma and grandpa. May they both rest well. Hugs.