When I was 17 I watched my grandmother have a stroke.
It was just her and I. She was so tiny. I picked her up and carried her to her car and drove her to the emergency room because my mind was not clear enough to call an ambulance, and it was a hospital I knew well. In a tiny town. I walked in and told them quietly what had happened. They helped. She was never the same.
She was my rock. Where I spent my time when I didn’t want to talk and needed to be without questions asked, I don’t do well with questions until I’m ready. Just a safe familiar place. And a cribbage board. And marshmallow fluff in the fridge (she bought it for me because she knew I loved it.)
And I was hers. I would do most anything for her.
They knew her. They knew they would never replace her. And never tried. My husband’s grandparents. And always have had a soft spot for a girl who misses her grandmother so badly, knows she tears up just thinking about her and would rarely talk about her because it was too hard. Never many questions asked.
They just happen to live in the same town. Happen to know her. And so… they became my stopover in the town I called my place…. after I have lost everyone else.
I cooked for them this past month. My husband had promised them lobster dinner. His grandparents. 92. And so it needed to be cooked. She’s failing. And two days later, I ended up in the small town, picking up a camera I had left behind, in the same hospital. She had fallen. Too many stitches to count. A tailbone broken. A nightgown that needed to be cleaned. Familiar doctors. A place familiar and one I hate at the same time. Just them and I.
I just want to point out a lesson.
Eat the lobster. Eat the cake. Drink the wine. Be young. Get the tattoo. Be present and available. Play 100 games of cribbage. With your kids and grandkids. Listen quietly. Sometimes they don’t need to talk or answer questions. Just be there. Do it all. See the place. Love. LOVE HARD. Live.. live so big. Because it’s a freaking waste not to.
EAT THE FREAKING LOBSTER.