I would have never suspected that my second column of this young year would be penned because of COVID-19.
At this point, it seems like almost everyone has either personally experienced the virus or has a loved one who has suffered through it. Though the good Lord has kept me from catching it so far, my family has certainly had its fair share of struggles.
After my mother, as well as two sets of uncles and aunts, each were diagnosed – and defeated – the virus, in the early morning hours of Jan. 12, COVID-19 took my first family member: my 80-year-old grandmother.
A homebody who rarely left her home except for doctor’s appointments and an occasional visit to the hair salon, my grandmother was exposed by one of her home-health workers, but not intentionally: the worker received a call while at my grandmother’s home one evening that her daughter had fallen ill and tested positive. The worker later came back positive, as did my grandmother, on Dec. 22.
The last time I saw her alive was Christmas Day. I took her a plate of food, candy and gifts from our family’s get-together in Ellijay, Ga. Her house was in a state of disarray; with home-health employees unable to visit due to her positive test, she simply lacked the energy to straighten up. We were able to exchange hellos and heartfelt goodbyes before I left.
(And yes, before you ask, I wore a mask during my brief stay, remained socially distanced, touched very few surfaces and applied copious amounts of hand sanitizer immediately after leaving her home. I have experienced no symptoms.)
On Christmas Night, my grandmother was admitted to the hospital, where she stayed until Jan. 5. With her oxygen at a level that made doctors content, she was sent home, albeit with an oxygen machine. The home-health workers returned, and I phoned her on Jan. 7.
In the best spirits I have heard in years, she told me she felt great and experienced “the best she had slept in years” the night before. I hung up the phone, full of hope. My entire family rested easy, as she seemingly improved.
Unfortunately, she was readmitted to the hospital the next night. With beds across the area at full capacity, she had to wait nearly 24 hours to receive her own.
Her condition deteriorated greatly on Jan. 11, so much so that Piedmont Mountainside Hospital in Jasper, Ga., allowed my mother and uncle to visit for much of the evening. I was fortunate enough to speak to her that evening and we said our goodbyes, though doctors and my family alike did not anticipate we would lose her so soon.
Around 2 a.m. on Jan. 12, we did. Her oxygen levels were still in the 80s; she simply stopped breathing in her sleep and was reunited with my grandfather, who she missed dearly after he died from leukemia in 2012.
More importantly, she got to meet her Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who she was ready to greet after a lifetime of faithful service.
Grandparents are treasures. They can become some of your closest friends. She was one of just a select few that I knew I could call at anytime – day or night – and she would pick up.
We talked about everything. Mostly about our faith, but also about such selections as my ill-conceived menu selections at Cookout (including one instance where she remarked, “You’ll have a bellyache!” after listing off what I had purchased) and my fruitless attempts at finding “the one” (she never ceased to ask me when I was getting married, bless her).
Somewhere in the world, cassette tapes (remember those?) exist of her playing the piano for me in my youth, as I crooned out hymns as only a prepubescent, high-pitched child can. I learned to type at her house (which has proven to be beneficial in my career choice) and ingested bowl upon bowl of Rice Krispies on countless after-school visits to her house, which was easily accessed on a trail through the woods where I grew up.
She called me her “buddy” and, unbeknown to me, repeated that sentiment with a smile to my mother the night she passed away, after our last conversation – a mere eight hours before she entered the land of rest.
Writing her obituary was one of the hardest things I ever did and, honestly, the selfish part of me wishes I had more to say about her.
But there wasn’t. And that’s OK; that was her. She was a simple Christian woman, who enjoyed the simple things in life. Feeding birds in her yard. Gardening. A plethora of wind chimes. Walking hand in hand with Jesus.
Long before it became a phrase associated with 99 percent of Facebook, I dubbed her “Meme” as a child (pronounced Me-Me, just for clarification). Simply enough, my other grandmother is “Nene.” As the first grandchild, I received the honor of naming them and all of my family has picked up on the monikers; rarely are they called by their first names or even “Mom.”
We buried her next to my grandfather Friday. Two days later, I find myself writing this column, attempting to pay tribute to a special person in my life. The sadness is fresh, but life goes on. I am thankful for the outpouring of love and support received over the last few days.
I could not shake the idea that she deserved to go down in history as more than a statistic; a victim of a worldwide pandemic.
So this one’s for you, Meme; “I’ll see you in heaven.”
Kevin Hensley is the publisher/editor of The Graham Star. He can be reached by phone, 479-3383; email, editor@grahamstar.com and on Twitter,
@KevinHensleyCNI.