mourning.

My Grandma Amy has long been one of my favourite people. That's her holding me when I was 1.5 months old. She has a large heart for everyone and anyone, and even up until last year, was sewing and sending many dresses to the orphans in Haiti. She has crafted her whole life. She's raised 7 children while running a farm, and she's burried two husbands. She's decorated her pink three-wheeler bike with streamers for countless trailer park parades. She drove into her late 80s. She offered and paid me $2 to cut off my down-to-my-bum length hair while my mom was out of town. When we slept over, she always bargained with me and my cousins, "the first one to fall asleep gets a quarter," and in the morning, we'd all get 25 cents. She was always giving, giving, giving; she always had a gift bag with your name on it of things she picked up for you, waiting in her sewing room. She always had a cuddle and a song for you, as long as you wanted it. She was always thinking of ways to make other people happy. She's known to many as the "Pink Lady" she has a zest for life, and has been always aged in such a way that leaves you hoping, "I hope I age that gracefully and with so much spark and beauty." She turns 93 next Thursday. Or rather, I hope she will turn 93 next Thursday.

Grandma Amy has been the glue that has held our family together. At first, she didn't need to hold anything together, we were just one big happy family; when I was growing up, all seven of her children (my mom being one) and their children (my cousins and me) would drop everything and gather weekly to see each other and share life together. We loved being a part of the Lumley clan together and I have the fondest memories of Christmases in October (before Grandma Amy and Grandpa Merritt wintered over Christmas in Arizona), summers on the lake at the cottage, cramped family "dos" at her pink trailer, countless sleep-overs with my cousins at her place, weekly dinners out at our standard restaurants, all with Grandma Amy proudly watching us all, orchestrating who sat where, who was included, ever watchful of someone on the perimeter who needed to be included, visiting with everyone present, and always having her finger on the pulse of our growing family. I loved our extended family. My friends could only dream of being a part of something so large and loving and intimate.

As my generation got older and we started having our own families, we moved all over the country, got busy, and the Lumley gatherings just didn't have the same appeal to those who remained. Sure there were dinners whenever someone was in town, but something had changed. The magic of childhood was gone when we met... except for that in Grandma Amy's eyes. A bit quieter and still, Grandma still cherishes whomever comes to gather in her presence and share life with her. Don't think for a moment that you can pass anything by her, because she's still as sharp as a tack. She still knows what's going on in all her grandkids and great-grandkids' lives. She still had her finger on the pulse of our family. She still is holding our family together.

But that's changing. Grandma Amy is dying. My heart is breaking into a hundred little pieces and I don't know how that part of my heart will ever recover. She moved into her nursing home yesterday, after quite a few trips in and out of the hospital. She can't walk anymore. She can't feed herself. She sleeps 22-23 hours a day. The family is on constant vigil. My mom sees part of her mother fade away on a daily basis into this shell of what used to be a vibrant, more than capable woman.

I have called her every Sunday for years and years. My mom told me that I probably wouldn't get to talk with her again as she can't hear to talk on the phone, nor has she the energy for it. (All this in one week--last week's call was delightful, as usual.) By supreme blessing, my aunt called me from Grandma's bedside, knowing it was Sunday and I would be wanting to talk with her. I had what very well might be my last conversation with her tonight. Her voice was slurred and low. She could barely keep up the conversation. But her voice rang clear as a bell when she told me she loved me. Tears streaming down my face, I told her as clear and loud as I could that I loved her too. So much. I didn't want to say goodbye. Didn't want to give up that last bit of connection with her.

I am dreading the phone call. I am preparing myself, but it isn't making it any easier. She's lived a good life, the argument goes. But I selfishly always want her around for a lot longer. If I had to concede, then until we come home in June. I don't know how to say goodbye to someone so close, someone whom I have loved like mad my whole life, someone who has believed in me, supported me, and loved me like mad right back.