My grandmother had been diagnosed with cancer a couple of months back and my mom was busy taking care of my sick uncle who wasn’t able to care for himself. I was staying at my parents’ house to help out my stay-at-home-mom.
I was also 9 months pregnant and had an 11-month old baby boy; I really don’t know what kind of help she thought I’d be. But hubby (at the time) and I moved in for a few weeks.
I’m sharing this story only because I get so emotional thinking of my grandma and how cute she was when I told her “it was time.”
At around 11 p.m., which was a little bit later than usual for her bedtime (she loved staying up late with us but always complained the next day), she got her glass of water and headed upstairs to her bedroom.
I went to her and told her I was going to the hospital and she said, in Portuguese, in between tears, “My sweet granddaughter, God go with you.” (She must’ve been predicting the labour that nearly killed me.) She hugged and kissed me and off I went.
Twelve hours later, my beautiful son Nicholas was born. Three months later, my grandma passed. Every year, when I remember his birth, I remember my grandmother and the limited time we didn’t know we had. But I also remember all things associated with her and it’s twice the happy sentiment for me.
Happy birthday to my son and a special hello to my sweet yet crazy vavo.