An Extraordinary Way to Live and Die
My grandmother’s legacy was joy.
My grandma, Mummi, died a couple of weeks ago.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise. She was 88 years old and had type 2 diabetes and, apparently, a bunch of other diseases nobody knew about. A couple of years ago, following the lockdowns and several months of inactivity, she had one of her legs amputated and was forced to move around in a wheelchair.
She wasn’t exactly the picture of health, but she was vital and energetic to the end.
I loved her very much, but I still haven’t cried.
It doesn’t mean losing her doesn’t affect me, or that I don’t or won’t miss her. I will, terribly.
It also doesn’t mean I’m cold, or that I’m denying myself emotions. It’s just that it’s hard to not feel good and smile when you think about my Mummi.
What an extraordinary way to live.
She was joy
Mummi was the kind of grandma you loved spending time with: always happy to see you and to spend time with you, never complaining.
When I picked up my high school diploma (no ceremony, I had been a high school dropout and finished my studies in night school), she was the first person I told about it, the first person I showed…
