Whenever my Grandmother did something naughty, my Mom would say "that's it; when you die you're getting cremated."
It was their favorite argument. Being a devout Catholic (and more than a little superstitious), Grandmom would take me aside and make me promise that she'd get a proper burial, next to Grandpop.
I loved Grandmom. She loved life and could even joke about death. We were kindred spirits - especially when it came to travel. She bought me margaritas in Tijuana when I turned eighteen.
I used to call her from my dorm room in college - I didn't quite fit in, but Grandmom understood. We'd talk about Entertainment Tonight and what we were having for dinner.
I wouldn't say she was self-sufficient. She never learned how to drive. She couldn't even sign a check and more than once pretended to be illiterate; she got lots of attention that way. My Mom would drive 2 and 1/2 hours to PA every week or two to take care of her bills. Things were getting ridiculous, so they moved her next door to my Aunt in the quietest corner of Lancaster.
I could tell Grandmom wasn't happy - she'd rather be with her buddies on the old Greyhound bus to Atlantic City. I believe she thought it was her job to play the slots. She won $80k on a 25 cent pull one time. My brother and I got a mini pool table as a result.
The years passed; Grandmom faded. The strokes started. My Mom's brothers and sisters argued over how she should be cared for; being the greedy sort, they'd rather her continue to live by herself than spend the monthly fee on assisted living. My Mom disagreed so strongly and faced such opposition that she suffered a breakdown. So, she stopped visiting.
I wish I could have spent more time with Grandmom towards the end. Michael Jackson had died (we would have talked about that), and my Mom herself was just getting out of the hospital. I went to the funeral by myself to represent her. I carried 10 years worth of anger against her brothers and sisters, but when I saw them, a decade older and fatter and sadder, all of that dissipated. We're messed up together, you know? It took a great effort to remember the reasons why we were so mad at each other in the first place.
F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, "Forgotten is forgiven." I stood on the pulpit overlooking Grandmom's coffin, and I realized how small and fragile everyone was. Same with my Mom, way back in Maryland. I breathed it all out and stepped down. I'll never forget it.