My Grandma died on Thursday 23 of June.
She lived 87 years and died quickly.
She was able to spend her last 8 months in her own home because I stayed here with her, taking care of her. Half a dozen people at the funeral thanked me for that. Someone said I was a saint. I don’t feel like a saint. A saint would cry. Some lady at the hospital told me how lucky I was to have had the chance to get to know her. I don’t feel lucky either. I didn’t get to know her that well. I don’t think there was much to know.
She had a few friends. She had a family. She had a small life, but a long one. It doesn’t seem like enough. It doesn’t seem fair. Poor Grandma.