I haven't really felt like blogging about this, but I do feel I should make some note.
Lou's grandmother, Frances G. Evans, affectionately known as Nana, passed away a week ago today. She was 86. We got a phone call last Friday night that she had gone into a coma, and then the call Saturday morning that she had died.
Nana Evans was one of those crochety old Irish grandmothers - liked her drinks, liked her smokes (she smoked up until about a year or so ago, and was last year diagnosed with lung cancer, which was what helped claim her life), liked to hear gossip (though she'd never admit it), liked to complain, and loved her family. She also hated being unable to care for herself, hated being unable to walk up and down stairs without help, hated having to rely on others for things that she used to be able to do just fine. In the past few years, she had given up on trying to live - she wasn't doing anything other than what was required, not having the joy of life anymore. The mood increased after the lung cancer diagnosis, but there was something else along with it. An attitude of "I told you so, I told you there was something wrong with me, see!" that lurked under the surface. Never voiced, yet there nonetheless.
We had a memorial mass for her on Thursday. It was a very amusing thing to see this very lapsed Catholic leading the family of non-Catholics (or also very lapsed Catholics) in what Lou terms as Catholocize - the sit-stand-sit-kneel-stand motions that I went through weekly for the first 17 or so years of my life. I'm sure Nana would have laughed at us, all confused.
The mass was followed by a few words from the priest at the gravesite, and then it was to a local restaurant for food, drink, and conversation. We all sat, reminisced, learned some about the family history, and then headed home.
Lou hasn't really reacted to this, not like I was expecting. I think he'd accepted it was coming long ago, and as she accepted it was going to happen, so did he.
No tears, just a fond farewell.