A Goodbye to our Matriarch

To be 41 and still have a grandmother is an extraordinary blessing. I never took this for granted. Even despite her dementia which started to steal her memories many years before, the sparkle in her eyes never faded. Until it did, three weeks ago.

My grandma, known to most as Peggy, returned home to God, and to her husband, son, parents, sister, and brother, and so many who loved her, and too many to count that she loved. She would have been 94 this July 4th.

Recent years and months led to a slow physical decline bringing an end to a beautiful life.

This is my reflection on her life of love and inspiration:

Shortly after she took her last breath, I was privileged to be with her as we waited for the hospice nurse and funeral home to arrive. It was a surreal experience, especially as I watched my father say goodbye to his mom.

I sensed the deep presence of a sacred grace and peace, trusting through the eyes and heart of faith that she was finally at rest. I wondered the last time she truly was.

As her exhausted and abandoned body remained, I had to remind myself that she was no longer there. She was home, and now it was her turn to wait for us, once again, as she did many years before.

The days that followed her passing were typical, filled with planning, wakes, liturgy, and meals. We told familiar stories, shed tears, and celebrated a beautiful lady and her resilient and fruitful life.

Hard days followed, and will continue to follow, as normalcy creeps in, shoving the grieving to the side. Until, grief raises its head and reminds us of her absence.

I find myself thinking of her, especially in the calm of night. I miss her. I know so many others have for some time.

I struggle at time to recall memories when she was herself, sharing only love and a quiet calmness that allowed for my comfort, despite her own grieving and worry.

When I was much, much younger, after my grandfather passed away, we visited her most, if not every, Sunday. As we grew in age, she started to visit us with her niece, and my deceased cousin/aunt Carol. I have wonderful memories of meeting them at the car, offering a hand to secure their safe steps to our front door. Their presence completed every ordinary and extraordinary occasion.

A few years ago, when my Uncle Tommy, Grandma’s youngest son, returned to God, I spent almost two weeks with her, bringing dinner and securing she was in bed before leaving.

Sweet conversations occurred as Grandma ate whatever I may have brought from my kitchen a few miles away. Most of the time, she didn’t know who I was, but she must have sensed a familiarity that allowed her to relax. As tough as they come, losing her father as a child, and spending her life caring for many, I took this as a compliment.

On a few occasions, she looked around her Sayville home, and would say, “I don’t need any of this anymore.” She was steadily letting go.

She told me on many occasions how she saved money so Grandpa could have a home, a yard, and a pool. He would only enjoy it for a few years, many of which were battling cancer.

This home became a space where her children and grandchildren found comfort, safety, and most of all love.

One of those nights when her youngest was preparing to return to God and I was joining her for dinner, Grandma asked me “if Tommy was ok.” I smiled with hesitation, and she gave me a look that told me she already knew the answer. A minute later, she gave me a different look, wondering who I was and why I was there.

I marveled at my dad as he spent more than 14 months, driving as much as two hours each way from Queens to Suffolk County, Long Island, every single day (expect for one when he was sick). He cleaned her and all of her clothes and sheets, fed her, provided care and dignity, even as he was one of her last memories to fade. Along with his older brother and his daughter and granddaughter, they gave her dignity and love, helping her remain in her home- a space she was most comfortable. For as long as I could remember, my dad accompanied and supported her, being a son any mother would be blessed to call her own.

During her final days, I saw my dad calm her down as her deep slumber was interrupted. He held her hand, and said, “I am here, it is ok,” and she eventually believed him. Until she woke up again confused a few minutes later.

I thought of 69 years ago when she was was the one calming him down as he rested in her much younger arms. In a way, what a privilege to return the favor to your mom who loved you into being. On the other side, what a toll it must be to accompany your parent through the painful and uncontrollable decline of mind and body.

That night she returned to God, I left her home one last time and walked to my car, and even during that drive to my temporary place of rest, I sensed a grace that revealed she was no longer suffering, confused, or in pain. She was home- I found peace here.

During that short time when I brought her dinner and secured her evening routine was complete, I handed her a copy of my first book. I knew she would never read it, but I was probably seeking her affirmation, desiring that she knew that I was doing what God made me to do (in addition to being a dad, husband, and advocate for human rights and peace).

She looked at the front cover, and saw the word “God.” (The book is titled, “Dreams Come True: Discovering God’s Vision for Your Life). Standing across from her in her living room, despite all the confusion and uncertainty, she asked, “Do you really believe in God.”

I smiled, cautious to her lived-experience and own spiritual beliefs that were ambiguous in recent years, and said with a humble confidence, “I do.”

She gave me that look, filled with skepticism yet a dash of hope, that I was right.

As I write this, a welcomed cool breeze is felt as I, too, must question her uncertainty. It is balanced by a deeper knowing that one cannot put into words. It is a sense of peace that I know she experiences, and I pray, I will one day receive.

A friend said this to me when I shared my grandmother passed and had dementia: “It is like you lose her twice. First, when she forgets you, and second, when she dies.”

I have been grieving the loss of my Grandma for sometime now. While I find relief in knowing she is no longer lost and in pain, I sure miss her.

I know so many join me in this emotion as we say farewell to our matriarch.

One final story…

My youngest, Lily, is preparing for her end of year show for her nursery program. An hour before Grandma passed, Lily asked me to sing “God Bless America,” as we closed the final page of her nightly book. My Italian influence wondered if Lily knew something I didn’t. I was unaware that she was practicing this familiar song, plus some other patriotic tunes for the show.

Throughout these past three weeks, Lily has been singing her songs with confidence and enthusiasm (as four-year olds often do), and I think of our Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the 4th of July in 1930.

How she loved these songs, and if she was here and well, she would be smiling with pride and conviction as she sings along with her 6th of 8th great-grandchild.

She was a sweet woman, one who only saw the best in us and all. I can only pray that I continue what was her legacy, and pass it on to those who share her last name, and many more who will never know of Peggy of Ozone Park and Sayville. May they know her spirit by the way I, and her descendants, live and love.