This Granny was the foundation, the one who made life solid, but she wasn’t immortal.

By Kaelyn Bertsch

I was wandering the aisles of my local grocery store last Wednesday, and I came across something that I haven’t seen in quite a long time. I came across a gallon-sized bottle of Ocean Spray Cran-Apple juice. It’s no one’s first pick: it’s too sour, has a bitter aftertaste, and stains your lips a shade of red that makes you look like you’re auditioning for a circus. It’s usually something an older person would buy. However, I bought it. Three dollars and twenty-eight cents before tax. I spent four dollars on something I have yet to open. 

Seeing that big bottle of juice struck something in me. To me, it was the smell of Jergens unscented lotion, the sizzling of a frost-bitten hamburger patty on her old George Foreman grill, the itch of a sweater covered in random embroidered beads, and the sound of the Fox News intro coming on every morning the second she woke up. The juice was more than just juice; it was everything. 

When I was little, my mom didn’t really want to be my mom. I always thought she did, but looking back on it, she never really was there. She hardly ever made it to any school events, she usually wasn’t the one buying winter coats, nor was she the one you could run to after you had a nightmare. I won’t get too far into all of this, but I had to write my own notes to put into my lunchbox, and I would lie to all of my classmates so it felt like I had a mom who loved me like theirs did. And while I never had my mom as a constant, I did have my granny. Looking back, she was my mom. 

Granny was a very specific woman; she liked what she liked, and she disliked what she disliked. She was raised to be a very conservative and Christian role model for her children, so you best believe when I say church was a non-negotiable. I went to a tiny little Lutheran private school for all of elementary, and my parents could not afford a dime of it, so Granny paid for it all. She made sure that if it was the last thing she could make happen, my sister and I would get a good education and a whole lot of Bible study. Even though this school was about a 25-minute drive from her house, which was all the way out in Piedmont, she made an effort to pick my sister and me up every day, and every day we would take her little minivan to McDonald’s after school. 

Over time, she was able to do less and less for us, and while it feels like she hasn’t done much, believe me, no amount of words could tell you just how much she did for my sister and me.  She bought my mother a house to make sure we had a roof over our heads, she made sure we had food in our bellies, she took us school shopping so we could have all of the nice things the other kids did, she always made sure we had a nice winter coat to keep us warm, she let my sister move in, and I think most importantly, she disciplined us. My sister and I knew better than to act up at Granny’s house because we would either get the belt or soap in the mouth. And while it seems harsh now, an 86-year-old woman doesn’t have a ton of power behind that swing. 

Every morning, it was always the same: an egg and cheese wrap and a glass of cran-apple juice. It never failed to change.

After a while, she couldn’t do so much for us. Now, we were all getting older, I started driving, and she got her car keys taken away. It’s kind of a predicted cycle, but it still is something that isn’t so fun to watch. She never made it apparent, but she was declining. She couldn’t go on her regular neighborhood walks anymore, she was forgetting more and more, she would wake up confused, and she even fell a few times. As embarrassing as it is to say, none of this ever really stuck out to me as a decline. I simply never thought of her as someone I could lose, but as the days went on, it wasn’t her taking care of my sister or me, it was us taking care of her. 

As time dragged on, she got smaller, she slept way more, she quit eating multiple meals a day, and the only meal she ever ate was breakfast. Every morning, it was always the same: an egg and cheese wrap and a glass of cran-apple juice. It never failed to change. It became the only thing she knew how to make, so if no one was there to cook for her, it was a wrap and juice. If you were lucky enough to be at her house on a good day where she felt good enough to cook for not only herself but you as well, guess what you were getting… An egg and cheese wrap and a glass of cran-apple juice. Eventually, you learn to love it. 

After a few months of that level of competence, her health dropped. Her blood sugar was through the roof, she hardly knew who she was, and she could barely stand. My sister Kolby, who was watching her at the time, called the paramedics, and it’s a good thing she did. Granny was diagnosed with liver and kidney failure, both near end-stage. At first, I still held the belief in my head that she would make it. I did not doubt in my mind that she would be around to watch me graduate, that she would get to hold my first child. I mean, she did both of those things for my sister, why not me too? Fairly quickly, my hopes were squashed. She started moving slower and slower, sleeping through entire days, forgetting more and more, and declining overall. 

As time went on, my entire family became aware that we didn’t have a whole lot of time left with her. I’ll be the first one to say that time was taken advantage of. I didn’t go out to visit her as much as I could have. When I was there, conversations were brisk and kept short, and we tried to stray away from any upsetting topics. Granny, though, was aware of her situation, she knew she was dying. Quite a few times, she would say something like “I was worried I wasn’t going to get to see you again” or “just in case we don’t get to see each other again.” I usually shut those comments down, but she was right, and we both knew it. I think a lot of the issue was that I didn’t want to see her like that. I remember how, when she got really bad, she would sort of protest. She would quit taking any medication because she knew it wasn’t helping, it was only making her worse. Eventually, she had told my grandma, her daughter, that she wanted to go to hospice. When I found out she wanted to go on hospice, I didn’t take it well. I was upset she hadn’t told me. 

When she started hospice, everything seemed to have gotten better. She was up and moving again, she was cracking jokes, she wanted to be outside, and it honestly seemed like she was living again. It made us all feel so much better, like she still had a few years left in her. I had my heart set on her making it to my graduation; I truly believed things had changed. I believed that until I walked in on things going downhill. 

I walked into her house and saw a minister. He was sitting next to her, patting her back while she threw up into a trashcan. She was miserable. From that point on, things only got worse. I knew the saying, “It gets better before it gets worse,” but I guess I never thought it applied here. Boy, was I wrong there. I would get a call from my older sister about every two weeks, saying that Granny was just acting “off,” that I needed to come see her, and that she thought Granny wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer. I always tried to make it out there, and I always believed my sister was right. However, I wasn’t always able to get out there and make it to her house. 

Everyone told me to talk to her, to tell her I was there. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was so scared of everything going on, and besides, I think she knew I was there.

Eventually, I got a call when I really couldn’t make it. I was on my way to Sioux Falls, across the state from her. I had just left Rapid, and my sister called me, bawling, saying she knew, and I needed to be there today. I wasn’t able to be there that day. I couldn’t just turn around, I had to go. So, I stayed in Sioux Falls the whole weekend, filled with anxiety and nausea. 

When I made it back to Rapid, I knew where I needed to be. I hadn’t yet gotten a phone call, so I hoped for the best. When I pulled into the driveway, there I saw my grandparents’ cars, so I knew something was wrong. When I walked in, she was in bed, she had been in bed all weekend. My grandma sat there, timing her breaths, making sure she was still there. I sat down and held her hand. Everyone told me to talk to her, to tell her I was there. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was so scared of everything going on, and besides, I think she knew I was there. 

She passed away later that night, around 7 pm, October 20th, 2024. I’d like to believe she was waiting for me, that she waited all weekend to go so that she could see me one last time. So, now anytime I see anything that reminds me of her, I take it as a sign. A sign from her that she’s still my Granny and I’m still her little girl. Her golden cross necklaces sway from side to side, hanging from my mirror, they make me feel safer than any person ever has. Unfortunately, from now on, I will have to make my own egg and cheese wraps, of course, accompanied by a glass of cran-apple juice. I just have to open that bottle.