Saying Goodbye To Our Precious Conversations

Alma Marie Davis

May 8, 1938 - January 5, 2020

In January 2016, I wrote the first blog about my grandmother entitled Precious Conversations. In it, I said, "I feel the clock ticking resolutely forward.  It's a cruel, grating tick."

The clock stopped January 8, 2020 at 10:25 a.m.

She passed away peacefully but unexpectedly. While we knew she wouldn't be with us by next Christmas, we weren't expecting it to be so soon. Sometimes death sneaks in quietly. 

When I wrote the first blog post four years ago, I explained, "...logic is my coping mechanism, and I've been thinking a lot about my perspective on what lies ahead.  So many diseases exist that could leave her suffering physically, in pain and fading away.  She could have to endure chemo and radiation for months/years. Maybe Alzheimer's is a way the rest of us can bear the burden for her.  She won't be aware, or so we hope, as her memory slips further. I hope we can carry the weight of sadness for her..." I pray that was the case for her. It's worth every ounce of sadness and grief if it means she didn't experience it herself.

The obituary was written, the service planned, and we met with the pastor who would conduct the service. He asked a question that broke through the numb feeling I'd surrounded my heart with since the moment my dad called to give me the news: Would anyone like to speak at the funeral about her? I didn't say anything, but my heart stuttered in my chest as I kept my lips firmly shut. By the time I made it back to the hotel, I felt absolutely sure I should say something, but I was terrified. Despite my pounding heart I spent time that evening writing the words I wasn't quite sure I could stand in front of others and say without completely losing my composure. In case you don't know, I'm a terrible introvert. And the idea of speaking in front of anyone made me want to crawl into the nearest hole and stay there. That very reason was why I did it. Because I felt like doing something very hard for her was the sort of thing she deserved. Rereading my 2016 post, I came across this line:

I can't change what's to come, so I can only change my perspective.

So that's exactly what I did—I changed my perspective. I decided I needed to do it, that I SHOULD do it. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't all that I wanted to say...but it was only about saying goodbye in the best way I knew how.

My mother later asked me for a copy of what I said. So, mom...this is for you:
I’m Jamie Elizabeth Davis. I am the oldest child of my grandmother’s oldest child, Terrie. It’s been my privilege to have my grandmother in my life for 42 years. As the oldest grandchild, I was the first, and she always told me I was also the first to call her Memaw…because I couldn’t say Mamaw or Grandma.

My middle name, Elizabeth, is after her mother who I was fortunate enough to have in my life until I was 13. I’ve always been thankful my parents gave me that middle name. Ironically, despite being born a Kenoyer, my last name has been Davis for almost 24 years. My husband, Wes, comes from a family of Davises. I always loved the fact I had the same last name as my maternal grandparents. But don’t worry, the family tree forks…

My children are obviously both Davises. And Papaw, the best part of it is my son, Caleb, will also carry on the Davis name and represent both sides of his family.

As a grandchild, I was fortunate to have the very best parts of my Memaw. She wasn’t responsible for raising and disciplining me because she had already raised her children. It was a lucky spot to have. So, thank you for going first, Mom, Julia, Sandy, and Chris—for paving the way. 

My Memaw and I shared a love of the colors yellow and purple. And she loved to tell me how I couldn’t say yellow when I was little, and it would come out “yeddow”. She told me that story so many times. 

There was a couple of years where both worked at Eastland Mall. I would look for her on my breaks or take Wes over there when we were dating to look for her. I absolutely loved the beautiful smile on her face when she’d see us walk into the store. She had such a beautiful smile. It was the sort you knew reached all the way to her soul.

My Memaw was consistent. No matter how chaotic my life was, I always knew she would be the same when I saw or spoke to her. That has always been such a source of security for me.

She was full of grace and had a rod of quiet strength. But I always knew she could be fierce if she needed to be. I never believed she was perfect, but I always believed she was sincere and had the best of intentions. 

I watched her as I grew up, and my grandmother had a way of loving and accepting people who came into her home without judgement. No matter who came to the house, which of us brought someone new, they were welcomed without question and treated well. I watched her care for people without expecting anything in return.

Memaw would wait at the door or standing in the open garage as you pulled away. She did that until she was no longer physically able to...Papaw, you were there as well. When I think about her, I often picture her standing there, waving, blowing me a kiss. Mom, when you stood at the door waiting as I backed out of their driveway last night, you reminded me of her.  

I called over the years, even at the nursing home, and tried to catch her awake though there came a time I greatly doubted she remembered me so I could tell her I loved her repeatedly just to hear her say it back to me. I treasured each one. 

Papaw, thank you for always being patient and chatting with me during those calls even when she wasn’t awake to talk to me. 

The relationship I had with my Memaw began when I was a baby, through my childhood into adulthood, and continued until I had to carry it for both of us. But it lasted because her love was unconditional…and because I pursued it. I didn’t wait for her to call first. I called her because I wanted to hear her voice, and I knew she thought of me even during the times we didn’t speak for awhile. 

I sat in the floor next to her chair Christmas day and held her hand. One of the last things I heard my Memaw say to me was that she loved me. I told her I loved her about a dozen times that day, and she repeated it back to me in her quiet voice. 

Part of growing up is learning to say goodbye to the people we love as the cycle of life continues. But I was so fortunate to live at least half my life hearing my Memaw’s voice, talking to her, making memories, and hearing her tell me she loves me.

I know I will see her again one day. Her love for Jesus was evident in the person she was…and IS STILL, and one day I will hear her tell me she loves me again…and this time, I bet she will say it first. 

I almost didn't make it through the last two lines. I prayed many times before that moment that God would let me get through it so I could give her the tribute she deserved. I held tight to the faith He would as I choked back the grief lodged in my throat and finished.

I wrote a second blog post in October 2018 called More Precious Conversations. I wanted to forever remember a conversation we had on the last evening I spent with her in her house:

"She stroked my hair when I laid my head in her lap. She told me she loved me, and at one point she said, 'I love you, Jamie Elizabeth.' I will never forget that.  I've recalled it a thousand times already. Before I left that evening, after my aunt and grandfather had her tucked away safely in the hospital bed, she told me she loved me again. She looked so small, and as I walked away, I wanted to run back, hug her, and not let go."

Someone gave me food for thought while I was in Indiana. She said it's better to ask people how they are in that moment during something like this. It stuck with me, and I've used it repeatedly since then. In this moment, I am heartbroken. In this moment, grief bubbles up in random moments and burns my eyes with unshed tears. Some moments I can't keep them from spilling over. Some moments I look at her pictures and want to sob because I can't call her. I know a time will come when remembering brings more smiles than tears. I'll look forward to those moments. Until then, I'll just keep living in these moments. Because I'm not sad for her, I'm sad for me...my family who are all hurting. Because...

I'll gladly endure the sadness of it means she doesn't have to...