As we got in the car, I noticed a text message from my niece, Emma. It was a heartfelt message to my mother about my Grandmother. The time stamp said 10:37 pm.
It felt like we arrived at the hospice within minutes. As we rushed to the front door, I saw a gurney being pushed by with a full, black, body bag on it. I had a rush of emotion. Throughout the days in Saginaw I often thought I was okay with things, accepting them, but then something would happen and I would have to turn away because I knew I was about to cry.
We went inside. A large family speaking multiple languages stood in the hall, crying. We arrived at my Grandmother's room. She was gone. We did not arrive in time. I overheard my Uncle Dick say that the time of death was 10:38 pm. My Grandmother looked peaceful and I kissed her. She was warm but I knew she was dead. I again stroked her hair and hugged her. It didn't seem strange to do this to a dead body, though I have never touched one before. Her mouth still hung a bit ajar: I wanted to close it. I didn't think she would like to be seen that way. Relatives arrived and circled her bed. Another vigil was starting.
One of the nurses came in and told us that the funeral home, located out in the country where my Grandfather farmed, could not pick my Grandmother up for a couple of hours. My mother sat at her bedside, stroking her hand.
"I am staying with her." she stated.
I heard my uncle say the exact same thing, independent of my mother.
We all stayed. People talked and laughed, telling stories of my Grandmother while we circled her bed and overflowed to a common area outside of the room. It felt important, that we were ushering her out of the world. I had the definite sense that she was in some sort of in-between moment and I wanted to help her through this stage. The relatives from the farm area and those from the city, all extensions of my Grandmother's family, spoke to each other seamlessly and without judgement, though their accents and conversation topics were different. She became colder and her limbs more rigid. I noticed my uncle slip away to a farther common area, alone.
The driver from the funeral home arrived. Everyone spoke to him in a friendly manner. Finally, he told us to leave.
"You don't need to see the next part," he told us, "it isn't pretty."
I knew what he meant. The black bag. The zipper. The end.
We left.
Thursday morning my mom and uncle were up early to meet with the priest and select passages for my Grandmother's funeral. My mother and I went out later and had a tour of Saginaw's bars. My mother has excellent taste. We woke Friday morning and drove to my Grandmother's apartment. I felt exhausted and surprised that our schedule was still so full. We were going to help pack up my Grandmother's belongings. I felt guilty, we had slept later than we should and I knew others were working. My mom and I rushed to get ready and darted to the apartment with our drive-through, Tim Horton coffee. We walked in to cheerful faces. A cooler filled with light beer sat in the middle of the floor. I realized why we were there. My aunts and uncles, the stepchildren of my Grandmother, had done everything. They guided us to small piles of my Grandmother's possessions, encouraging us to take things to remember her by. One brought out a jar of change announcing that it was the inheritance. My Aunt Peggy had already left and my Uncle Dick announced her "shit out of luck" for her inheritance cut. I thought we would be carrying mattresses, packing boxes. I opened a can of beer and selected a few things of my Grandmother's that I loved, putting them in an eight cent cigar box I found in her bedroom.
As we walked out of the apartment, I glanced back. The furniture was gone, a box or so remained and an old newspaper sat on the counter. I though of Alec, Lola and I eating breakfast with her in the summer of 2014 in an area that now stood vacant. My Grandmother had insisted that we "sneak Lola in" to the apartments, though pets weren't allowed, let alone a ninety pound Pit Bull. I suddenly had to turn again so that no one would see me cry.
She was gone.
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