Almost thirteen years ago, I started dating Matt, my future husband, and one of the first things I learned was that he lived with his grandmother. Before meeting the rest of his family—or most of his friends—I had the privilege of meeting Nana. She was a spry 85, completely independent, endlessly optimistic, and full of warmth. From the very first day, she welcomed me with open arms and, of course, fed me! I remember spending occasional nights at their house to avoid the late drive back to my university. I always insisted on sleeping on the couch, worried that Nana might think less of me if I took Matt’s bed. A few months into our relationship, she quietly bought new sheets and extra pillows for Matt’s bed—point taken!
During my clinical rotations, while living back at home, my world shifted when my dad died unexpectedly. Those weekends in Altoona at Nana’s became a refuge, a place of comfort as I navigated the immense grief and confusion of losing him to suicide. Nana was always ready with a warm hug, asking how I was, and telling me she was praying for my mom and me. Even moments of accident or chaos turned into laughter with her—like the time I accidentally backed my car over her beautiful peonies. I braced myself to cry, but she just laughed and said, “Good, I needed to cut those back anyway!” On one memorable trip to Kmart for shoes, she briskly walked the aisles, tried on flats without ever sitting down, and bought two pairs—ten minutes total. She explained she had been buying the same shoes for ten years but needed to make sure her feet were still the same size.
Eventually, Matt and I moved into our own home, just a mile away from Nana’s by the back roads, and we would walk to visit her regularly. Those visits became a tapestry of meaningful conversations, some difficult at the time but priceless in hindsight. We talked about life, loss, faith, and God. When I suffered my third miscarriage, she shared her own experiences, her eyes misty with empathy. By then, at 97, confusion was slowly creeping in, but that day, she looked me square in the eyes and asked, “Are you okay? I know what it’s like to say you’re okay when you really aren’t.” She had seen family members grow sick and pass on, and she often expressed her wish: “I don’t want to be sick in the hospital. I hope that someday I just go to sleep and wake up in heaven.”
For more than a decade after I first met her, Nana remained her spunky, independent, and optimistic self. She could beat me at washers, hit two balls playing wiffleball at a family picnic, and even chased my daughter Lena around the yard—RUNNING—in her late 90s. She maintained a three-story house by herself until just two years ago. Even as recently as last weekend, when her mind was not quite herself, she lit up when she saw our children and exclaimed, “Lena girl!” She had rarely taken any medications, seldom complained, and her outlook on life never ceased to inspire me. If she had a complaint—usually about the weather—it was always brief, followed by a shrug and then a cheerful change of subject. Nana has been a role model, a living example of resilience and joy, and I feel profoundly blessed to have known her. It’s a strange thought to realize I’ve known her for more than a third of my life, yet it was just a tiny fraction of hers.
To my husband, his parents, and his sisters: I am so sorry for your loss and deeply grateful that you shared Nana with me all these years. Nana woke up in heaven today, I’m certain of it. Rest in peace, Nana. We love you.
