Every Man Dies, Not Every Man Really Lives

Monday morning I woke to a call from my mother. She never calls me at 6:30 a.m. unless something important happens. In turn, I always sort of dread answering her early calls. This was definitely an important phone call. My maternal great grandmother passed away that morning. She had lived the last five or so years in a nursing home, so it wasn't totally unexpected. She was a very kind, creative and crafty sort of grandmother. Every time we'd visit she would give us some crocheted piece she'd been working on. I treasure those items a little more now.

I'm not the usual case when it comes to death. I'm one of those people that gets hit late. I'm strong when I hear the news. Strong when I sit down in the church surrounded by tears and black clothing. Still strong when all the family members I haven't seen in years whisper soothing words in my ear while they hug me. It is only way later, that it becomes my turn to cry. I have never been a very emotional person.  My dad even jokes that I'm a Snow White Queen, because I appear to be cold inside. I'm not quite the Ice Queen, I do feel and express my emotions, just not for the world to see. When my Grandmother June passed, I didn't shed a tear for seven months. Then all of a sudden, I came across my collection of porcelain dolls she gave me and let go.

My dear mother is very emotional. She cries at Hallmark cards, ASPCA commercials, and of course, funerals. I have many people in my life like this and I love them all for it. Through the years, and many deaths, I've taken the unemotional stance and have learned to be there for people like my mother at distressing times such as these. I am very much a rock for people in times of emotional need. So this week, my family will head up to Nebraska to pay our respects to my dear sweet Grandmother Duncan. God rest her kind soul.