And I have no idea how to feel.  I wasn't especially close to her.  She wasn't a particularly describable woman.  Beautiful, yes.  Vain.  Definitely.  Outspoken.  Oh yeah. Hurtful.  At times. Sad. Recently.  Lonely.  More than I care to think about.

I woke up this morning and knew she was going to die.  I knew it because last night I watched The Quiet Man, which was on for no reason (afterall it wasn't St. Pat's Day when it is usually shown) and it was her favorite movie.  I also knew it was the 13th and 13 was a significant number for her. My grandfather's birthday was February 13th.  Their anniversary was April 13th. So I was surprised when Mike came in the bathroom during my shower and told me at 9:30 that she died a half an hour before.  Alone in the hospital. I went Tuesday to see her. It was the first time I have seen her since May.  She was failing fast.  It's amazing what happens when you are dying. You become like an infant, except the worst part is that unlike an infant, you are acutely aware of what is going wrong.  There is no dignity in death. You are reduced to an ignored patient, a nuisance to the nurses, someone who lies in your own excrement waiting for someone to remove it while you just wish God would take you from your pain.  I can only hope that when my number is up, I am on a plane coming back from a beautiful vacation.  Sudden.  Instantaneous. Dignified.

Everyone keeps telling me how sorry they are about my grandmother and it gives me the heebie jeebies.  I feel like an imposter.  I wasn't close to her.  I hardly called her.  I hardly visited her.  I was a terrible granddaughter. I knew this day would come all too soon and that I would feel as terrible about myself as I do right now. I should have done more.  I should have visited more.  I should have cared more.  I feel terribly guilty today.  I feel like my heart is made of stone. My sister called me and said "Have you spent the day crying, too?".  I was like "Um, no, I haven't.  Am I supposed to ?".  It just feels that I don't have a right to carry on like I was a treasured family member. Or that she was.  

My grandmother wasn't the easiest person in the world.  She complained alot. I bought my father a silly statue last year that said "The older she gets, the more Irish she becomes." That sizes her up. She complained constantly about her health, even when it wasn't bad.  She liked to ask me how my diet was going.  Every. single. time. she. talked. to. me.  I often thought that she felt that my big ass was a bad reflection on her.  I overheard her whispering to my late great aunt at my baby shower "Suzie has always been a BIGGGGGG girl".  I went home and cried.

The truth is, she was hard to talk to.  Hard to visit.  I dreaded every phone call.  Every visit.  Mike and I were having a fight one day and she called in the middle of it.  I heard him say "Sure Grandma, Suzie is right here.  She would love to talk to you". I gave him the finger for the next half hour as I heard all about her latest medical ailment. The last time she called was for my anniversary.  D* aniel picked up the phone.  Mike and I generally dive on top of him when we see the number on the caller ID to keep this from happening.  But I am so glad he got there first.  I told her that I was planning to come down with the kids 2 days later. 2 days later she entered the hospital and never came home.   

Tonight we were sitting in the middle of dinner and D*aniel asked if I saw her before she died.  I told him yes, I did on Tuesday.  He looked me straight in the eyes and said "You should have brought me to see McMary (that's what the great grandkids called her)  Tuesday.  Now I have to wait till I go to God to see her".  And you know what, he was fucking right.  I should have brought her great grandkids to see her.  At the very least she deserved to see them before she died. But I didn't want to be bothered. Out of the mouths of babes, I guess.

Right now I am thinking alot about when I was a kid and we used to spend weeks in the summer at her house.  My grandfather was a retired NYC homocide detective.  He was larger than life.  He was so handsome.  And she was so beautiful.  She looked like Maureen O'Hara.  He looked like John Wayne. Maybe that is why they loved The Quiet Man so much.  She used to play checkers with me and took us to the town pool, which they only belonged to for the sake of us kids. My grandfather, in his sixties, used to jump from the high board at the pool.  He was a beautiful diver.  He was an excellent swimmer. This is the way I like to remember him.  Young.  Athletic.  Strong.  And my grandmother...I'll remember sitting on her front porch, collecting fireflies and watching the fireworks.  I'll remember going to Friendly's for an ice cream or that time 9 years ago when we went for Pizza together when my grandfather was in the hospital.  She was taking cabs to the hospital.  It made me sad.  I drove down to NY (they lived in Westchester County) to take her to the hospital so she wouldn't have to take a cab. Old people shouldn't have to take cabs.    

I need to end this post right now because for the first time since I heard the news, I am crying.  All of this nostalgia has made me wish that I could just get one more of her annoying phone calls, hear her call me Suzie Bella Jane, smell her Chantilly perfume.