Nana

 

Today in church, my neighbor Lauren Varney confided how inadequate she feels about taking care of her aged mother every night. She confessed that she has to come home and regroup after every encounter, and vow to do better the next night.

My heart reached out to her, because I understand. Nana Ruby died one year ago, and I'm still unpacking all the emotions I felt during the last years of her life, and especially the last year, and then more especially the last few weeks. There were plenty of times when I despaired, "It's all come to this; Nana led such a beautiful, full life, and it's all come to this." And an equally painful thought, at times when I felt selfish, "This is who I am. I've had forty-five years to become a good person, and I've become nothing but a someone who sits in her car in the assisted living parking lot eating hot McDonald's fries and crying when she knows she should walk inside and visit with Nana."

Looking back, I realize that it was the "it's all come to this" mentality that discouraged me. There were other times when I felt more buoyant, more hopeful, more helpful and more sanctified in my efforts. Those were the times when I knew and accepted that I was enough, and that the meager help I gave my mom in Nana's care was enough, even though my radiant and brave mother was carrying most of the load all by herself, with my Dad's support and encouragement.

There were times of clarity when I saw a moment for what it was, with all the perspective of eternity, and it was enough. Nana's decline was just a season; a poignant, heartbreaking, magnificent, grueling season, and we did it. Like any other season of life, we didn't do it without mistakes, selfishness, despair or fatigue. But we can't deny that we did it with love, understanding, gratitude and compassion.

Although Nana's last years seemed interminable when measured against the short list of things she could do, I knew her time was fleeting. So I would swallow those French fries, dust the salt off my hands, paw away the tears and walk into Nana's room, where I could be both courageous and cared-for, both brave and small, both devastated and inspired.

Strangely, I would leave feeling all these things. I would be full of love and inspiration, yet utterly wrecked inside after helping Nana struggle through, minute by minute, guided by her unassailable light, faith and positivity. And then it was over. Heaven came and dwelled with us for a few brief, yet everlasting days, and then Nana was gone.

 Like I said, I am still unpacking all the feelings from that rich, sacred, heartbreaking time. One thing I'm not analyzing anymore, though, is whether I did a good job. I did. I didn't. I did my best. I'm thankful I was given the chance.