Goodbye, Beulah

Beulah at our wedding in 2010.

Note: I started writing this a couple weeks before she passed away at 6 a.m. on Oct. 22. I kept hoping that she'd stick it to the doctors and surprise us all.

Normally after working a wedding the night before, I’m exhausted. It’s the only time I can ever sleep in.

But not today. I didn’t need an alarm to make sure I was on the road by 9 a.m. My body already knew.

I called my brother to let him know I was on my way, and that I would be on time to the hospital right outside Portland. I had coordinated the trip with him earlier, primarily because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to do it on my own. I needed him there to make sure I kept it together.

The rain came down. Four hours of the fast, constant rhythm of the windshield wipers keeping time with the mile posts as they went by. As I drove closer to my destination, I started to panic. This was my goodbye, most likely. The final time I’d get to see her.

She was weak. Her breath short. Raspy words floated lightly in the air. Still ornery, but very weak. This was the woman who showed me the coffee cup and liquor trick at my aunt’s wake; who taught me how to slurp spaghetti; who never, ever stole a single point from me in cribbage; whose infectious laugh around the campfire let you know you were in for an awesome, hilarious time; who I consider to be my family. And there she was: tiny, defenseless against the cancer wreaking havoc inside her. And extremely angry at the doctors for not letting her nurse her pain away with some brandy.

Beulah might was well be called my other grandmother. When I was little, she would stay in a trailer on our property during the summer. When I was 3 years old, I would drag my little brother over there to visit her. As got I older, she stopped coming up and stayed in Washington. We’d visit her, and go on all sorts of camping adventures to Long Beach, or we’d hang out by her property in Woodland that was on the lake. With all of her grandkids around, we felt like one of them, accepting swimming challenges across the lake, combating one another in croquet, and playing hide-and-seek in the dark while camping.

I’ve lost people before, but never made the trip to actually say goodbye — to know that was the last time I’d ever see them. My aunt’s death came too soon, and my grandmothers were too far away to go visit. I’ve had the luxury of not dealing with that final goodbye, and experiencing that last time you’ll ever be with someone. I’ve dealt with the loss, and knew that it was coming, but never had I tried to face it bravely. Distance had always saved me before, but now that excuse was gone.

When I left her hospital room I lost it. My brother walked with his arm around me, saying it was OK, and Mikayla was their supporting us both. I was in a daze the whole drive back up — breaking down between DJs clinging to summer singles like"Blurred Lines" by Robin Thicke, and "Get Lucky" by Daft Punk. I'd snap back to the present and realize I was in a traffic jam, or that I'd made it to the ferry.

Beulah died some weeks later. None of us were supposed to be surprised, but there's still a little piece of you that thought maybe she could be the exception. If anyone was stubborn enough to prove everyone wrong, it was her. To sum up losing her, all I need to do is quote my brother: "It sucks."