Grief is a Bitch
This is one of my last photos of her. She didn't remember my name, but somehow she seemed to know that I belonged with her. She held an afghan in her lap gathered up as if she was holding a baby, and she looked at me. I, probably incorrectly, ascribed meaning to this. I pondered the days that I was that small baby she held, soaking in the love and care that a grandmother imparts to her granddaughter. Growing up, I trusted her more than I trusted anyone. I loved her more than I loved anyone. This past year, my patient population has included more women born in 1918 than any I remember before this. The women who are my patients had very diverse and different lives from my grandma's. One had lived in several places throughout the world and had two daughters in her 40s. My grandma grew up on an Amish farm, married in her 20s, and had nine children. Nonetheless, spending time with them during our visits makes me feel as if I've had a few more minutes with her. That&#
