Kathryn Puse, 1922-2009

(Here is the eulogy I will be reading at the funeral tomorrow.)

"I love you, too."

She would say it often, and to anyone she felt needed to hear it. She was a remarkably giving person, almost to a fault. She cared dearly about her family, among which I am proud to be counted. Indeed, Kathryn Puse was the kindest and most loving individual I have ever known.

My memories of my grandmother are colored by my upbringing, and the fact that I grew up in a house just a few hundred feet from her home. Grandma and Grandpa's place was always just a short walk away, allowing my brother and I their constant company. As close as we were to our aunts, uncles, cousins and other extended family, our bond with our mother's parents was strongest of all.

Her marriage to Herbert Puse had been going strong for almost 30 years by the time we came along. They had wed in 1948 after a year of courtship. Grandma had worked successfully for several years as a secretary, and at my Grandpa's behest, settled down as a housewife. She had never intended to be a "farmer's wife," but sometimes love makes our choices for us. Grandpa would cultivate his land as a farmer, in addition to his full-time job for the state in construction, and Grandma would make a home for him and their two daughters, Jane, my mother, and Judy, my aunt.

When my mother and father wed, they soon took up residence in a small house on Grandpa's property, one which Grandma and Grandpa themselves had once lived in. And it was in these environs that my brother and I grew up in, with both a loving home and a loving home-away-from-home within easy reach.

A year or so after his retirement, a bad car accident left Grandpa in bad shape, unable to really take care of himself. For the better part of the next decade, Grandma would attend to him constantly, taking the burden of his care on herself, and asking for help in only the most trying of circumstances. This is indicative of two of Grandma's defining traits: her remarkable selflessness and her remarkable stubbornness. She was so giving you felt she would barely take her own needs into account, and this could be somewhat maddening to those of us who cared about her.

But through all the struggles and health problems, both Grandpa's and her own, she continued to care for him until his death in 2002. About a year later, at my parents' behest, I moved in with Grandma, as her own health had been worrisome since 1998, when she'd had quadruple bypass surgery. I was there to help ease her burden, and help out as much as she wanted.

Which, it turned out, was not much. Grandma's selfless stubbornness remained intact, and she continued, by and large, to care for herself. If I were to describe my relationship to my grandmother during those years, it would be more as a roommate than a caregiver, as anything she *could* do, she *would* do, never asking for help, and always politely declining any offer of the same.

Eventually she would make concessions to the effects of illness and time: the loss of her driver's license, walking with a cane and then a walker to get around the house. As she began to experience more health difficulties, she began to accept my offers of assistance more frequently. But right up to her last day in the house, she was still doing the lion's share of her own housework. It was, after all, her house.

When she left home for foot surgery in February, it was worrisome, as any surgery was at her age, but not uncommon. She'd had problems with her feet for several years, owing to poor circulation. But as her weeks of recovery became months, and more serious health problems began to reveal themselves, the realization began to settle in that this time, she might not pull through.

At this, I began to visit her more and more frequently at Heartland, her assisted care center. I stopped by, if not every day, then more often than not, and did something that I should have been doing far more often in the preceding years: Talked to her. About life, about her past, about family, about everything. For as long as I can remember, she had been such an important part of my life, yet I had known her mostly as just "Grandma." I wanted to know her a bit as Kathryn, too.

And I also wanted the chance to let her know how much she had meant to me, and tell her that I loved her. I closed every conversation with those words, and she always responded, "I love you, too."

She held on for a long time, displaying her stubbornness once again. Some days she would seem to be in decline, and then would bounce back yet again. Then, 3 weeks ago, word came that her condition had taken a sharp turn for the worse. I went to her room as soon as I could. She was in clear pain, and could barely speak, limited to an occasional acknowledgment of "yeah" and "okay." I told her once more how much she had meant to me, how much I would miss her, and that I was proud to be her grandson. Then, before I left, I hugged her, kissed her forehead, and said, "I love you."

She responded with the longest sentence I heard her say that day: "I love you, too."

In true Grandma fashion, the next day she bounced back yet again, conversing much more lucidly than just 12 hours before. For the next two weeks, she would have good days and bad, and we'd all visit as often as we could. When I received a call on Friday that she seemed to be failing, any thoughts that this might be it were tempered by the fact that Grandma's stubbornness would not permit her to go.

But when we visited her this time, she wasn't talking at all. And when I said goodbye and that I loved her, this time, she didn't respond.

Of course, she didn't have to. I knew. We all knew. She said it with her every action, every moment of her life. Every minute spent caring for Grandpa. Every task she did herself because she "didn't want to be a bother." Every laugh, every hug, every tear. Her words echoed in every moment spent with those she cared about.

I love you, too.