My grandmothers' baby brother passed away Sunday. This leaves my 98-year-old grandmother as the last of eight children.
I've not told her as yet.
Chalk it up to moral cowardice on my part, but I'm terrified of what the news will do to her. More, I don't want to be the one to pitch her off into mental, physical or emotional decay.
Her mind is still good. Yes, she's foggy on some stuff, but she's also 98, so a little fogginess comes with the territory.
Granted, there was the episode involving an un-opened 2 1/2 pound can of beef stew placed into the oven, with the dial cranked to 500 degrees, followed by Gran wandering off. Bet you didn't know that 2 1/2 pounds of Dinty Moore beef stew exploding sounds a lot like a grenade, did you?
But, that sort of thing is going to happen, and who am I to get wound up over random explosions? And she remembers people, and lesson plans, and the various and sundry stuff that has happened during the last 98 years on this planet.
I don't want to take that away from her.
After Grandad died, we weren't positive that Gran wasn't far behind. She spent a lot of time leaning on her baby brother, and gradually rallied, but it was touch-and-go there for a while.
Now, baby brother is gone, and Gran is all that's left of what was a big, close-knit family.
The services are Thursday, so she's going to have to be told fairly quickly.
Sometimes life really sucks.