She was the last one standing.
I wonder what that is like being last. I don’t think any of us envision being the last one standing. Instead we envision our funeral full of people swapping stories and passing tissues, but what if there are few people who know your story left?
My last grandmother died. This was just shy of 102 and she was the last one standing. All of her friends had passed, her husband had passed, and honestly her mind had passed. For the past 3 years she hasn’t really known where and who she is.
How could she? No one was left to remind her.
Our identity is tied to others. We have meaning because others see us and value us. When the value goes away, we may lack purpose suffer from depression, but when the entire group fades, where does that leave someone? Alone.
While I mourn my grandmother, I also am happy for her too. Her life was not hers in the end. She did not have the community to bring it to life. But someone has to be last. It has to be someone and I assume it is left to the bravest.
I hope to be as brave as you grandma. Brave enough to be the last one standing.