November 12, 2024

Walking Through My Grief

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In early September of 2024, Mom had an event to attend for a dear friend. She was hesitant to leave after the events of August, when Nenaw had been in and out of the hospital due to severe episodes with her heart. We all encouraged Mom to go, knowing she would regret not being able to attend. Shena, Charly, and I planned a rotation so one of us could stay with Nenaw for several hours each day while Mom was gone. This way, she wouldn’t be alone for long. At that point, Nenaw could still get around but needed help with things like showering, taking her medications, and eating. On that Saturday, Ginny had a birthday party to attend, but as soon as it was over, I left to go to Nenaw’s apartment.

When I arrived, Nenaw was sitting in her recliner. At this point, she couldn’t hear the TV or radio, so she was just sitting quietly. In Arkansas, there are those rare days in early September when the sun is shining, but the air feels amazing. This was one of those days. I asked Nenaw when she had last been outside, and she said it had been since her last doctor’s appointment—about a week ago. I said, “Okay, let’s go.” I got her settled in her wheelchair, and we went outside. I sat with her on the back porch, looking at the trees, just talking. We talked about how they used to take down the flag at night and in bad weather, but now flags were left up year-round. We also talked about how the gardeners hadn’t fought the summer drought hard enough, and the once-beautiful flowers had withered and died.

Eventually, the sounds of the cafeteria prompted me to ask if she was hungry. She said, “I could eat.” We ordered her meal, and honestly, I think she ate it for my sake. She chose the hot meal, though she didn’t like it, but she made the effort for me. I asked if she wanted to try watching the Arkansas football game—she was a die-hard fan—but she said she couldn’t see it or hear it well enough anymore. So we rolled back to her apartment.

Neil had found a puzzle during our summer vacation that he thought Nenaw would enjoy, and when I saw it in her room, I asked if she wanted to work on it. She said, “Sure.” She did this for me. Sitting hurt, but she did it for me. We sorted the edge pieces and grouped similar ones together, talking the whole time. We talked about family, friends, church, hopes, and worries. After a while, my 40-year-old back started to need some movement, and I realized there was no way she wasn’t hurting too. I asked if she wanted to rest, and she said, “Yes, I think I would like to.” So we bagged up the pieces we’d sorted and put together. We made plans to continue working on it the next time we had some alone time, just the two of us.

Then I asked her one last time about the football game. She said, “You can listen to it, honey.” So I turned on the radio and described the play-by-play until about halfway through the fourth quarter, when I needed to head home. It was a nail biter. I called her when I was almost home to tell her the final score.

A month later, she was gone. 

When we cleaned out her apartment, I grabbed that puzzle. I doubt I’ll ever work up the courage to finish it. I suppose it’s become a symbol of the last thing we made together. In the 14,749 days we shared, we made hundreds of things—maybe even thousands. We baked together, we cooked together, we crocheted together. But mostly, we made memories. And I’ll always cherish that day with her. She did it for me. She endured. She smiled, laughed, talked, and loved. So I’ll keep the puzzle of the little white Tennessee church in a special place, and maybe one day I’ll have the heart to finish what we started. Until then, I’ll hold onto the memory of that day.

Love always,

ET.