As long as it takes…

On August 8, 2006, at 10:05 PM, my phone rang. The caller was a Sheriff’s Deputy informing me that my only grandson was en route to Duke Hospital with a gunshot wound to the head.

Shocked and angry, I began screaming at the caller asking, “Who are you; you’re a sick person.”  He called me by name and told me to calm down and to tell my husband and get to the hospital ASAP.  Finally, I had to accept what I was being told.

It seemed to take me forever to get to the bedroom where my husband was sleeping. This was surely a nightmare…I felt like I was in slow motion. My mind was screaming “Get up, get up, Adam has been shot, but in reality, no audible words were being spoken.  I felt myself slipping to the floor and I broke into gut-wrenching sobs.  

My husband jumped out of bed, picked me up, and asked if something had happened to my mother.  I looked up at him and as quickly as the sobs began, they stopped. In a monotone voice, I remember saying, “No, Adam, has been shot. My husband went into an immediate anger, terrified mode.  We quickly got into the car and went to the hospital.

We waited all night while the surgeons attempted to save his life. When they came out of surgery, they explained that Adam was breathing, but with life support, and regretfully he was brain dead.

Somewhere in the room, I saw my 16 year old granddaughter hugging a teddy bear, and sobbing so hard I wondered if her heart would burst. Her brother was her best friend. I saw my son sobbing, a brokenhearted father. Everyone else seemed to be either sobbing or sitting in utter shock, not able to cry nor to speak. The latter is where I was at that moment.

It was a dreary rainy day. After my son and Adam’s mother talked to the doctors they made the decision to take him off life support.  As they stood by his bedside, they watched their son take his last breath. A light came through the dark skies and went over his body and back up again. I believe it was God’s Angels taking him home.

We all got through visitation and the funeral, sometimes with tears, and at other times we were even able to laugh as we reminisced about the life of my only grandson, his father’s only son. 

It was not until after the funeral that the stark reality that my grandson had been murdered set in. God forgive me, but I felt pure hate for those involved in his death. I wanted them all to die like he had and feel our indescribable pain. (I have since been able to forgive them, hopefully the way Jesus forgave his murderers.) All of those involved in his death have been tried and given just punishment, but the fact remains that Adam is still dead.

So the question is how long I will grieve my grandson’s death. It’s been almost 6 years and still sometimes I see a truck like his, and I cry. I see a tall handsome blond young man, and I cry. I look at the picture album of our trip to Disney World when he was 5 and through the tears, I smile. I think of his funny self, and with tears in my eyes, I smile. I think of the times he called me just to talk, and saying “Hey granny, what’s up?”  Then he would tell me about his day, good or bad, but always before we ended the call, he would say, “Granny, I love you.” And with tears welling up in my eyes, I smile.

I think of his son, who was six months old the day we buried his father. I look at him now and I think of his dad because he looks so much like him and my heart bursts with pride, still I cry.

I remember a part of my son’s impact statement to the Court…”On October 3, 1985, his mother and I watched our son take his first breath…the happiest day of my life.  Then on August 9, 2006,  his mother and I, heartbroken, watched our son, Adam, take his last breath...the worst day of my life”, and I cry.

It’s been almost 6 years since we had to say good-bye to him. People ask me how long I can grieve my loss and I answer, “As long as it takes.”

II have a loving, caring Father in Heaven who understands and walks with me through all of my life trials.  To me, grief is not all about crying painful tears, sometimes the tears are happy tears; it’s not all about not being able to move forward, it’s about love.  It’s about remembering the happy times as well as the painful times. It’s about longing to hear “Granny, I love you” one more time. Yes, my joy and my grief of having and losing my grandson will last as long as it takes.

Fried Pies

I have always liked to cook and I am a good cook. However, baking and fried pies have never been a talent of mine. Most of the time, you have to follow long recipes when you bake, and therein lies my problem.

My cousin gave me some apples that she had dried and sealed.  She told me that I could make some fried apple pies. She told me how to cook the apples and that was easy enough. They tasted good when they were done.

I googled recipes for fried apple pies and found one that didn’t look hard, in fact, it looked too simple to be true. All you had to do was roll out canned biscuits.

So, I got out my pastry board and my rolling pin thinking this is going to be a snap. WRONG!!! As I was rolling out the first one, I had to answer the phone.  I only talked a minute and returned to my task of rolling out the biscuits.  To my utter surprise, the dough had shrunk back to almost the original size of the biscuit. Are you kidding me!!!  It was paper thin when I left it. So, I rolled it again and quickly put the apple filling in it.  Yeah! I had it down pat now and I rolled a second one.  The recipe said to cook two at a time and to stay with them. So, I heated the oil as directed and put my first two in the pan. Feeling very good that I gotten this far, I looked at them and they had puffed up like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. No! This was not supposed to happen.

But, I had started this and I needed to finish this batch. I rolled the rest of the can of biscuits, even cut the dough in half, hoping to at least have only baby Pillsbury Dough Boys. Why did I ever think this would turn out for me? Oh well, I got them all cooked. I had strong urges to throw them all away, but I tasted one. While too doughy, they did taste okay – I didn’t say good, they were just okay.

I am determined to master this, so, I will use my own recipe for pie dough which I am sure will not rise. If you don’t see me around for a couple of days, you’ll know that I have perfected it and having fun, or that I have simply become overwhelmed and am crying in my Diet Pepsi.

My husband would have given me a hug and said, “Nice try, Honey, better luck next time."  We’ll see.