Three weeks ago, I lost my grandma. After days of indecision, I finally hopped on a plane and frantically flew to British Columbia. By the time I got to the hospital, Grandma wasn’t able to talk much. As sharp as I knew her mind still was, her physical body was betraying her. In a room full of sons and daughters racing to meet their mother’s needs and grandchildren to aid where they could, I began to process the loss that would inevitably take place. How could I say goodbye to a woman I had too much to say to? After years of selfish childhood followed by years of exhausted parenting, I felt that I was just entering a phase of life where I could take the time and ask to hear her stories, receive her wisdom, and simply know her. How could I reconcile all the questions that would go unanswered?
With the busyness of the atmosphere, I settled for no deep words at all. I didn’t feel I had the time. I was already too late. For two hours, I helped fan away her discomfort, stroked her curly wisps of silver hair, offered pain-relieving suggestions, and overfilled cups of water. Then I said good-bye. Within five minutes of leaving the hospital to take my airport bags to her house, we got the call that she was gone.
Now that she’s relieved of all pain and jamming with the angels, I can’t fathom wishing for her to be back here, even for our sakes. Instead, I will remember my grandma through the pieces of her life I was able to share in. She was a fiery woman who strove for holistic health in manners of physical exercise, fresh food, spiritual freedom, and strong character. So I dedicate this small reflection to her.
My grandma, Darlene.
An elderly woman sits on a bench between two planters filled with red petunias. She has curly, short, silver hair, is smiling, and is wearing a navy sleeveless outfit.
Grandma was an athlete. Baseball, fishing, and curling were notable sports she showcased her strength in, having a Provincial Championship in curling and the envy of all the boys in fishing. Her equestrian skills were second nature and pickleball had its season of passion. But my favourite sport that my grandma partook in was swimming. I loved that she got to share in a sport that was dear to my heart. I remember hearing of the lanes she and Grandpa would swim, and I would think, “Gosh, I hope I’m doing that in my seventies.”
Out of the pool, off the field, or whatever exit was made from her physical endeavours, Grandma ensured that rich, replenishing food was on the horizon for her at home. She once made a point of showing me how to peel the film off a rack of ribs. Her assumption that I would have the gumption to tackle a fresh rack at home was a testament to her insistence that good food aids in good health. She had been an owner of a health food store, an avid gardener, a master canner and jam maker, and an incredible cook. A most popular rave was of her ability to cook for a busload of people—which, when all of her kids and grandkids got together, we were about that size—and despite the size of the job, her ability allowed for all the dishes to finish simultaneously and be served hot. My skills in the kitchen are a far cry from hers, but I cherish the example she set. If I do find myself tackling a rack of ribs, I will gladly reflect on the master chef who was my grandma.
Of course, “man does not live on bread alone,” as Matthew 4:4 of the Christian Bible states. My grandma was a strong woman of faith. She didn’t shy away from conversations that challenged her faith but rather leaned into them. She held space for people to freely question and express doubt and challenge her beliefs. What I respected most about her was that if she wasn’t satisfied with her knowledge of a subject, she would keep digging. She would ask the questions to other people, to her ministers, and to her God. To be able to engage in her faith so freely remained a source of strength for her right to the end.
Grandma’s strength was so apparent that even as she was experiencing pain in the hospital, she was determined to do things her way. Always a fiercely independent, get ‘er done woman, I imagined how annoyed she must have been at the kerfuffle of people trying to anticipate her needs and advocate for her. She would roll her eyes exasperated at everyone talking over her while she was trying to get her point across, even mouthing “never mind” many times during my visit with her. Of course, near the end, she needed the help, but I could imagine her inner monologue saying something like, “Boy, if I could, I would be shooing you all away and taking matters into my own hands.”
However, her proud, independent strength was also beautifully coupled with a strong, humble character. As annoyed as she may have been by people trying to do life for her, I know she was deeply appreciative. Her love for her family, friends, and community was impenetrable. In my memory, I can see Grandma frustrated at people inserting themselves in her plans only to come back later with an apology and humble appreciation for the help she received. Could she do it all on her own? Absolutely. Did she recognize that relationship mattered? Absolutely.
If I could speak to her now, I’d wonder at her thoughts on my reflections of her. I hope you as the reader accept these words as my personal memories of her, and I hope you got to enjoy her a bit through my eyes. If you had known her personally, you would have seen how much more she truly was. A matriarch. A legacy-builder. A force. My grandma. If I inherit a quarter of her grit, I will consider it a good inheritance.
In loving memory of Darlene Clarke (1940-2024).
