My Grandma, My Shelter: Lessons from Her Life and Passing

Grandma? That wasn’t my grandma. Mine was open-eyed and full of life. She constantly brought us fruits and desserts, drove me home from school when I was “sick,” attended Bible study some evenings, and watched her favorite programs in the mornings. She was home.

So how could this be my grandmother? So lifeless, so empty. Her life, it seemed, had boiled down to this one moment: an awkward viewing at the funeral home. Her children and grandchildren were all together, finally together. I don’t remember who I stood next to or what words were exchanged. But I do remember her lying in her pillow-lined casket; her hand placed atop the other on her stomach, her face devoid of breath. My body wouldn’t allow me to step too close. My brain went blank as my heart ran cold. A queasiness rumbled in my gut, threatening to rise up, as I stared at the casket. For just a brief second, the world stopped.

The doctors said it was dementia. Slowly, her memory diminished over time. I would try to make her laugh, though our conversations became like a broken record, skipping and repeating. I didn’t mind repeating myself. I cherished every moment. I cooked for her, went out with her, and proudly shared my accomplishments, swelling with pride as she celebrated alongside me. She would tell her friends how lucky she was to have grandchildren like us. But in truth, it was we who were lucky to have her. Her love and support were motivation enough to pursue my dreams.

My grandmother had a cough she couldn’t shake, one that tore through her chest. I watched quietly from a distance, my stomach lurching at the realization that she was deteriorating before my eyes. After multiple doctor visits and second opinions, we learned she had lung cancer, slowly spreading through her body. She called out to God, sometimes praying for death, sometimes pleading to be spared the suffering. Our family was broken. As her condition worsened, so did her memory. She barely called me by my name anymore; I became “Benita,” her niece.

“Benita, stop calling me grandma!” she said once during a rare hospital visit, drifting in and out of drug-induced sleep. In my mind, that was the end of everything.

Her death taught me lessons that extend far beyond grief. It taught me transparency; how to be open with my emotions instead of bottling everything up until I eventually broke. It taught me perseverance, the importance of pushing forward even when life feels unbearable. Her passing reminded me to cherish every person I love, because tomorrow is never promised, and moments with them are fleeting. I love my grandma not only for the warmth and guidance she gave me while alive but also for the ways her memory continues to shape me. Even in death, she teaches me patience, resilience, and compassion. I find her in small reminders: a familiar scent, a favorite dessert, the echo of her laughter in my mind. Each memory is a gentle lesson, a blueprint for how to live with love and intention. Though she is no longer here, I continue to navigate life guided by her spirit, carrying her wisdom, her encouragement, and her unwavering love. My grandma was my shelter, my home, and she still is; a quiet, enduring presence in the core of who I am.