My grandma passed away early this morning.
She was 90 years old. She weighed less than 90 pounds.
But she was the toughest little lady I’ve ever known in my life.
She fought through more than her fair share of hard times. Through everything from kids running away from home, to the death of her husband, to health problems, she never lost her spunk. She never stopped being her. She was quick to tell us if our clothes looked silly or if we needed to eat more, which usually meant more cookies, which we honestly didn’t need to eat. She always provided honest and often hilarious commentary on everything from TV shows to toys to hair dye. On her best days she could crack us all up over just about anything. On her worst days, sometimes she didn’t even recognize us. But she kept fighting, and we loved her for it. She kept gardening and baking and taking care of the home she lived in, she kept up with all of us and made sure we were doing okay. And she made, hands down, the best pierogies I’ve ever eaten in my life.
My grandma didn’t want to go to the hospital last night. She wanted to stay in her house, in her bed. At 1 a.m. she woke up and asked my aunt for soup. My aunt brought a cup of soup to her in bed and she responded with as much attitude as ever, “That’s not how you eat soup. You eat soup sitting at the table.” So my aunt got her up and took her into the kitchen and she had her soup the way you’re supposed to have soup. And then she went back to sleep. And that was that.
I don’t have words for how much I’m going to miss this little woman. And I don’t have words for how important she’s been to me my entire life. I wouldn’t be who I am today without her. And for that, I’m forever thankful.
