Grief.

A girl should never have to see her Grampa cry. Not ever.

After a surgery that should have taken 3 hours and instead took 9, after a recovery that should have taken a week but ended in 4, my dear, sweet Gramma died of congestive heart failure on Friday at 3:30. It was peaceful and she had a chance to say goodbye to Grampa - without the knowledge that that is what it was. She was 90 - to be 91 in August.

She was also fun, loved horses (was a trick rider for awhile, actually), made the best syrup sandwiches, sneaked us dinner before we went home for dinner, loved gardening and her flowers (especially her glads), gave me my love of sweetpeas, secretly smoked until 4 years ago when she decided that she was sick of hiding it (no, not kidding), made sure my Grampa knew what was what, and BOY could she stand there with her hands on her hips. She was little, only 5'1".

And I miss her.

I drove out to Mom and Dad's early in the morning on Sunday. I was fine. I had checked out a bit since the phone call. I reached the exit off-ramp, and that was it. I had to pull the car over because I don't think I could have seen 2 feet in front of me for the waves of misery that had bathed me. Mom answered the door. I've never seen her cry out loud before. Not really. Not from her very being.

But the hardest part of all of this was going to see my amazing Grampa. He's 101 and now, after 76 years of marriage, he's on his own. I went with my Dad. Grampa's eyes filled with tears when he saw me, saying only "Please take me out of here, I'm going to go crazy".