Saying good-bye to Grammy

Today, Claudine Dunne is going to be buried in her best floral-print dress and thin gold wedding band, the shine pretty much worn off by 62 years of nervous fidgeting.

The death certificate will say she died at 8:55 a.m. Saturday at age 83, but my grandmother -- the one I grew up with -- really died about a month ago. She fell and hit her head and became almost a stranger, lying in her hospital bed, muttering random bits of information as they passed through her dying brain.

She moved into The Lutheran Home here in Cape Girardeau nine days before she died. She could get daily physical therapy there, and we hoped that would turn her back into the vibrant woman she used to be.

We couldn't have asked for more from her caretakers, but in the end, it didn't help.

Today, when people say they are sorry about my grandmother, I'm thankful that I have friends and co-workers who care about me, but I'm not sorry. I don't think she would have been, either.

My sisters and cousins and I called her Grammy -- inevitably, the first grandchild can't say "grandmother," and all following grandchildren are stuck with whatever perversion of the word he came up with.

Grammy grew up in the country but went to Baltimore, Md., to become a registered nurse. She met the son of immigrants in the building where she worked to fund her schooling -- she was the soda jerk in the cafeteria, he was the elevator operator. They married against her mother's wishes.

Grammy and Pop-Pop moved to a Philadelphia suburb, where she became one of the early "supermoms." She worked in hospitals, a doctor's office and did shift work for Scott Paper Co., all the while raising two sons and a daughter and caring for her home.

My first memory of Grammy is visiting our family in Tampa, Fla. My second is when I was seven and my father died, and she helped drive her grieving daughter and three young children back to live in her house -- a house that had been peaceful for years.

But that was Grammy -- it wouldn't have occurred to her not to sacrifice to help her child. Her whole life was devoted to helping people, from her career to her church work to her retirement, when she volunteered as an ombudsman to visit nursing homes. (Up until two years ago, she was calling her clients "old people.")

She probably tried to die at a time that would be convenient for other people -- after Thanksgiving but well before Christmas.

The daughter and grandchildren she rescued all those years ago were a little more selfish. We wanted her to move to Cape Girardeau in her old age. What a blessing that she and Pop-Pop came -- Grammy was here to impart our history to us, attend our weddings, diagnose our aches and pains and be a part of our lives.

It's weird, but your grandparents seem to freeze in appearance from the day you're first aware of them. For about 25 years, Grammy seemed to look exactly the same. Two years ago, she started looking older. Thinner.

But she was still Grammy. "Are you dieting at all?" she'd ask. "Because weight trouble runs in our family."

No kidding, I'd think, rubbing my second chin thoughtfully. "Yes, Grammy. I'm dieting."

"Good," she'd say. And then she'd offer me a piece of pie.

The last time I saw her, she was at the lunch table at The Lutheran Home. My grandfather and I took turns feeding her a pork chop dinner. She slumped in her chair.

"Grammy!" I spoke up so she could hear. "Do you remember who I am?"

She turned to me slowly. "How could I forget?" she said. "You're our Heidi."

And how could I forget her, either?

Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.