Grandma's strength and spirit live on in her family's hearts

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

What Grandma would say on this morning after her funeral is, "It's over now. I know you're sad but tears are a waste of energy that don't get you anything but tired. So dry your eyes and go do what you have to do. I had a good life and it's time for you to get on with yours."

Something like that.

She wouldn't sit around feeling sorry for herself. She never did. She told everyone, all the doctors and nurses and health-care professionals and neighbors and friends who helped her in her later years that life had been good to her and that God had been good and she had little cause for complaint.

I called her Job, her faith was that strong. Her father, whom she adored, died when she was 10. She immigrated to America, leaving her country, her home and all her friends when she was 15. She buried a beloved sister, two brothers, her husband, her daughter and every one of her lifelong friends.

And yet she never asked, "Why me?" or "What next?" or "What's it all about anyway?"

Two years ago, before she had her second leg amputated, an anesthesiologist came into the operating room with a clipboard and a pen. He was young and officious, and so intent on the facts, just the facts ma'am, that he never really looked at the woman giving the answers. "Name. Address. Zip code. Phone Number. Mother's maiden name. Age. Height," he asked. And without missing a beat, this then 85-year-old quipped, "Now? Or an hour from now?"

She used the word "stump" without a catch in her voice. She named her prostheses Frankie and Johnny. She shimmied from her bed to her wheelchair, from her wheelchair to a chair or into and out of a car, and so many times it was agony watching this old woman struggle.

But she never said, "This is too much and I can't do it anymore."

In the middle of her life, she seemed to have it all. She had a good marriage, good children, good health and enough money to enjoy life. She worked hard, but she liked hard work. She actually looked forward to polishing silver and washing windows and ironing sheets and dressing the table for every meal and making every meal an occasion.

She liked business work, too. She paid the bills and she balanced the checkbook, and when her husband left the security of the railroad to start a travel business as the age of 55, she worked right along beside him.

When he died suddenly in 1971, she didn't think she could live without him for a week, never mind 27 years, and if someone had told her then that she would, she would have said, "Never. I can't." For she had no idea then that she was so strong.

It was her faith in God that got her through everything. That's what she said. "Here I am God. I don't know what Your purpose is this time, but it's not for me to question. Just help me through this. Just don't leave me alone."

And God never did. He sent so many people, friends, strangers, neighbors, who helped her through open-heart surgery, one amputation, another amputation, and myriad illnesses of age.

Two months ago when she was told of the sudden death of her daughter, she said, "Not my Janet." And she cried then, but only a little and not for herself. And she still didn't question God. "He must know best," she said, even when this, the worst thing, happened.

Her house feels smaller with her gone. It should feel bigger without the wheelchair and slideboard and all the people coming in and out. But it's just a house now, not Grandma's house. And tea, even in her cups, will never taste the same.

"You'll be able to go dancing again," we whispered as she lay dying. She missed dancing. She missed so much. We cried when she died. Of course we did. So did the nurse on duty who knew her and loved her, and so did so many people we phoned to tell. "Dry your eyes," she would tell us today. "I'm fine. Really, I am." "I'm fine."

That's what she always said. But this time it's true.