We hugged and twelve hours later, Hannah arrived. A day later, my brother called me to tell me my dad’s best friend had passed away. Hubby was at home putting the crib together. It was just Hannah and me in the hospital room. My first conversation with my day-old newborn went something like this:

“Hi Bubbles. I’m your mommy. And I’m not perfect. I’m so sad right now. I’m sorry to cry in front of you. I am so happy and sad at the same time.”

And then I did what I do best when I don’t know what to do. I told a story. I told my first princess the story of my life. As I remembered it up to that day. From the beginning. She just gazed up into my eyes and seemed to take it all in. I don’t know how many hours passed. I’m sure she doesn’t remember a word I said.

So here I am again. At the crossroads of life and death. When I called my dad this morning, he told me the hospital said, “Your grandma has taken a turn for the worse.”

I couldn’t speak. Fear seized my throat and the tears started flowing. I’m not ready was all I could think.

I drove home from Starbucks where I was writing to find my hubby waiting for me on the steps. I walked inside and he took everything from my hands and laid them down. On the floor. On the piano bench. Then he pulled me into himself in a tight embrace. “Tracy called. [My sister’s husband.] Biji’s gone.”

I began wailing and moaning. And wailing and moaning. And wailing and moaning some more. I collapsed into my husband, and he squeezed tighter as the waves of sadness came and subsided. He held me—until I let go.

As I walk through my first day without my grandma, I see how grief is like the tide. It ebbs and flows in cycles of sorrow. And still waters. And just when you think you’re done crying, another memory stirs the waters. And just like that. You’re bawling again.

The last time I saw her cry was a couple years ago. Her legs were causing her almost constant pain and her feet were very swollen at the time. During the visit, I wanted to tell her something, always aware that this could be the last time I see her. I finally mustered up the courage one morning when the house was quiet and I found Biji alone at the dining room table, enjoying her cereal and tea.

“Biji.”

“Yes.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Yes, what is it.”

“No, I mean, I want to tell you something, but you’re gonna get mad at me.”

“No, I won’t get mad at you.”

“Yes, you will get mad at me.”

“No, I won’t. Just tell me.”

“No Biji, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna be mad.”

“I promise you I won’t get mad at you. Okay. Now just tell me.”

Sigh. “Biji, I know you’re getting older…” And we both lost it. We were both crying now, and I was struggling to get words out. “Biji, I know you’re getting older, and each time I come to see you I’m so happy, but I don’t know if there will be a next time.”

“Yes, Beta, I know that so many times, I could have died, but God didn’t take me yet.”

More tears.

“Biji, I’ve been thinking a lot, and I’ve been thinking about what I want to say to you. If it was the last thing I said to you, what would I say?”

“Yes.”

“Biji, I don’t know much. I’m so much younger than you, and you have so much more experience, so I don’t know much, but I think I do know one thing. This is the one thing I wanted to tell you.”

“Yes. What is it?”

“Biji, if I only had one chance to tell you something, it would be simply this:
I would want you to know that God loves you so much, that when it’s your time to go, you don’t have to be scared, because he’s forgiven you, he accepts you, and he loves you more than you’ll ever know.”

We both cried and hugged. And before we drove back home to New York a day later, I prayed for her. I remember the words because I wrote them down.

Dear God, thank you for the wonderful week I’ve had here with my grandma and mom. Please be with her in these days as they are hard for her. Please touch her legs, and her feet and her knees and her back and help her each day when she feels weak. Please give her strength for each day. And God, Please remind her that when it’s her time, she doesn’t have to be scared. Amen.

When I think of Biji, I will always remember her for her stories, her wit, and her laughter.  Once, she told me of a time when the high school principal reprimanded her for hiding a puppy in her dorm. Another time, she got in huge trouble from her parents and teachers for giving herself a nose-ring! Finally, she said that when a pompous teacher called on her, she stood up and answered his questions in a loud voice, just to bother.

My own high school English teacher became so fed up with my classroom antics, he told me not to raise my hand again, “Even if you need blood or oxygen or anything!” I think I ticked him off more when I responded with a burst of laughter. I returned to apologize a year later.

You might find it amusing to know both my grandma and I taught our own classrooms at one point.

And although Biji never wrote a book, when I think of the two family members who have influenced my love for stories, they would have to be my father and my grandmother. About a month ago, I told Biji that I finaled in a recent writing contest. She was thrilled. But her exact words to me in typical Biji fashion were, “Kamli kurey nay kamili kiani lickna.” Translated: “It takes a crazy girl to write a crazy story.” Followed by laughter. I took that as a thumbs up.

And that’s what I will remember about Biji the most. The sound of her joyous laughter.

Biji, I wasn’t ready when you pushed me out of the hospital room the last time I saw you.

I wasn’t ready to hang up two days ago when you told me to call you later.

And, I wasn’t ready when you said goodbye this morning.

Some things in life, you’re just never ready for.

But I’m so thankful for all the days, the stories, and the laughs God allowed us to share together. I will carry them with me. And share them with my children. And wrap these precious memories around me, because your arms can no longer hold me.