Laila Sady Johnson

Unlike a lot of my peers, my parents died when I was just beyond my first decade of adulthood. My father when I was 29, my mother on my 31st birthday. It was both freeing and shocking to be without the support of parents – an example of the falling or flying dichotomy.

But, I had Laila – my mother’s mother and the subject of my song “Laila Sady Johnson Wasn’t Beaten By No Train”. There’s lots I’ve said about Laila. She’s mentioned often on stage, within my albums and in my writing in general. She was the parent waiting in the wings that I didn’t expect. She was my guide through grieving my mother. By the time Mom died, Grandma was familiar with loss at close range – miscarriages, her parents, her youngest son when he was 29, her husband, my mother. When I confided that I cried every day for my mother, she said that she cried every day too. I intuited that she allowed her grief privacy but not secrecy. That distinction made sense to me. It was permissive and gentle. It was dignified. It took me time to integrate the lesson.

And now, Grandma Laila has died, thus transmuting her grace, determination and wit into the great unknown.

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Last week my aunts shared with me that Grandma was in hospital. When I told Blake he suggested we immediately make the three-hour drive north to see her. Within a few hours we were on the road. By nine o’clock that night we were at my aunt and uncle’s home, and by 9:30 PM my aunt had driven me to the hospital and I’d decided that I was spending the night there. The care staff helped me get comfortable and I settled in.

It was an uneventful night. She rested and was unresponsive. The RN and LPN on night shift shifted her body at intervals. I held her hand and spoke to her. We slept.

Just after 6 AM she woke and fixed her eyes on mine. She raised her eyebrows in an expression that – as far as I ever understood it – conveyed a sentiment of, Well… this is it, like it or not, huh?

I swabbed her mouth with water, then gave her a drink through a straw when she seemed ready. She quietly asked me to sing to her. When she said something that I couldn’t understand through her oxygen mask I pointed at my blue surgical mask and said,

“It’s hard to understand you with these masks.”

“Mad at you?” she said, misunderstanding me. “I’m not mad at you. I’m never mad at you! Ok… maybe sometimes, but only a little.” She wrinkled her nose at the end of the last sentiment.

I had not expected this; to have her in full consciousness. We eased into conversation. She was alert and her humour was robust. She spared no mercy in raking the excellent nurse across the coals for crushing Grandma’s pills into applesauce. We rotated her bed during the staff’s next visit so she could look out the window. Her oxygen delivery was switched to a nasal tube and I removed my own mask

“Am I in a hospital?”

“Yeah, Grandma. You’re in the hospital in Porcupine Plain.”

“I thought so. I don’t want to be in a hospital.”

“Where do you want to be?”

“Dead… I guess?”

“Yeah. Fair.” I paused knowing what my intent in coming to her was.

“About that… it’s why I came here. I wanted to tell you that it’s ok with me. It’s ok if you want to die, I mean. I came to tell you that I love you and that you can do what you want. And if you want to die, it’s ok. I’m ok with it.”

“Well, everybody dies.”

“I know.”

Tears came to my eyes as I held her hand and her gaze. I felt myself loving her as hard as I had ever loved her.

Loving her like when she’d make me breakfast every morning after Mom died and did not comment on how I would prioritize doing all the puzzles in the paper and not leave my place on the stool at the counter all morning. Loving her like the evening after Grandpa died and I asked her if she’d like me to sleep with her and she said, No. This is how it is now, Melanie. Loving her like I did during the final fall yard clean-up at her house in 2021 when she was 91 and Blake couldn’t get the leaf blower out of her hands and my son was an infant who could barely roll over and she quietly approved of him lying in the stiff grass because she thought a not-yet four-month-old should be independent enough to lay on a lawn alone while we worked. Loving her like when I’d sneak her bruna kakor from the downstairs fridge and butter tarts from the freezer. Loving her like when I’d set her dining table with the Royal Albert Chantilly china.

Loving her as we talked frankly about what was inevitable and what I had been easing to the forefront of acceptance for the last several years.

“Why are you crying?” she said.

“I’m crying because you’re OLD, Grandma. You’re 95.”

“I’m not 95. I’m 94.”

“Ok. You’re 94. But you’re 95 next week.”

“Yes. When I am 95, I will be old.”

I laughed through my tears at her precision. The past 21 months had quietened her. She was isolated by poor hearing. Her energy levels were easily diminished. And now she was awake and aware of the time of year and of her age and – most thankfully – of me. Her kid. She had started calling me her kid after mom died.

“Are you crying and laughing now?!” she said.

“Yes.”

“You can’t cry and laugh at the same time.'“

“I can.”

“You must have practiced.”

It went on like this all morning. I talked about our record label, Western Seer. She was excited, saying the same thing she said when I told her I was pregnant. Really?!?! Then she confessed that she had no idea what it meant to have a label other than that Blake and I have a corporation. She shrugged her sweet shrug that indicated it didn’t matter if she understood. I asked her if she’d like to see my boys and she said yes. I was joyful and messaged Blake to come. We returned to the topic of death periodically. At one point I said,

“I’m ok with it, but I don’t know how to do it.”

“What do you mean?”

I considered what I meant.

“Well… I’m sitting here and you’re lying in bed and we’re talking about death and I just don’t know how you go from this to dying.”

“I’ll just turn my head and go ‘blegch’”. She stuck out her tongue for emphasis.

Then she said,

“When I die, people should be happy. Not sad. Be happy.”

“Ok. I promise I will be happy for you. I will miss you so much, but I will be happy for you. I’ll do it.”

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This past week I’ve thought about the promise I made her; specifically how to navigate my immense relief for her while I receive texts and calls from friends and family who mean well, but who don’t know what I know. And it is tough to keep my promise without retelling our story over and over.

But I will. I will do what it takes.

I am happy I had her as my bonus parent for 14 years.

I’m happy I asked her about herself – that I knew her as a woman and not only as a grandmother.

I’m happy she has been released from a body that no longer served her vigorous spirit.

I’m happy that we respected one another so deeply that we could say what we said before our time together was through.

She spent the next night alone and we were told she couldn’t sleep. In the morning she ate a full breakfast, which stunned everyone. I went in to see her that morning and she was exhausted. She rallied briefly, and then asked if my cousin and I needed permission to be in her room. I told her that we didn’t need permission, but if she wanted to be alone we would let her rest.

“Where will you go?”

“Just to the end of the hall.”

“Yes. That would be good.”

When I said goodbye that afternoon it was with a heavy heart. On the drive home to the city I stared out the window at the fields covered in deep snow, a phenomenon that I remember as the norm in childhood, but has been increasingly rare in recent years. Gran and I commented that it was good for the farmers. Blake held my hand and held the stillness.

“She could die tomorrow, Blake. Or she could live another five years.”

“I have it in my mind that we can go back for her birthday,” he replied.

“Ok. I feel the same way.”

The next morning I saw I’d missed a call from my aunt. I called her back immediately.

“Mom died this morning.”

When I was in the hospital I had asked Grandma if she wanted someone to be around when she died. She said yes. I pressed her for more explanation, asking if she was planning to be one of those people who dies as soon as someone leaves the room. She tilted her head and said,

“It would be ok to be alone too.”

On the phone with my aunt I sighed.

“That turkey.”

Today Laila Sady Johnson would have been 95.

Today she would have been old.

postscript
If you see me, I want you to know you don’t have to say anything. That’s ok. You can ask how the new album is going, or about the label or you can just tell me I look nice. Those are all ways to show up.

But if you do want to say something in acknowledgement of Laila, let me give you a little guidance:

Don’t tell me you’re sorry for my loss. Don’t tell me it must be a difficult time. You could tell me you read about her and thank me for sharing our story. Or that hearing about my Grandma brought you a smile. Or that you had wanted to meet her because she sounded like a real hoot.

Just be happy about it.

It’s all she asked for.