The grandparents had been together 62 years. Sixty-two. Three times longer than I’ve lived. However, they’ve lived apart for eight months.
Grandpa needs particular care, and no economical place could accept them both. Grandma now sleeps alone every night in a smaller facility across town for the first time in over 60 years. Once, in private, she said, “It’s the loneliness that hurts more than anything.”
Grandpa always asks, “Where’s my little mouse?” when we come. His nickname for her. She enters, and his face lights up like he’s seeing her again. However, visiting hours end. She must depart. He cries after her, “Stay just a little longer, little mouse.” I guide her out the door.
After Sunday service, I visited Grandpa yesterday, expecting to see him in his recliner waiting for lunch or watching Westerns. I arrived to find the nurses acting strangely. Overly soft. Too cautious.
Then I saw Grandma sitting by him, gripping his hand like she would never let go.
Something changed.
I approached, my pulse racing, but she looked up, eyes brimming, before I could ask. Six words she spoke made me queasy.
“I never want to leave him.”
Not knowing what to say.
Not knowing what to do.
But I knew then that nothing would ever be the same.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Grandma holding Grandpa’s hand was etched in my mind. I thought about their dresser-bound wedding photo for as long as I could recall. Two youngsters practically staring at each other like they had the world in front of them. At the end of their adventure, money was tearing them apart.
Next morning, my mother and I sat in the kitchen while coffee cooled.
“There has to be a way,” I said. “We can’t accept this.”
My mom sighed. “We tried everything, sweetheart. Moving in with family and getting extra aid at home, but he requires full-time medical care. We cannot afford a private facility that can accept them both.”
After walking my residence, I called our church priest that afternoon. He knew my grandparents for years and blessed their marriage decades earlier.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, embarrassed to call. “But this is wrong. Don’t make them live apart at the end.”
Father Dominic paused. He invited them to Sunday service. Let me see what we can.”
Father Dominic recounted my grandparents’ tale after mass that Sunday. As he spoke about love, devotion, and the painful reality of financial limits, I gripped my mother’s hand in the pew, my heart racing. Then something amazing happened.
People moved. The front-row woman took out her checkbook. A retired nurse came up to volunteer. I scarcely knew the individual who offered monthly donations. Before I could grasp what was happening, Father Dominic added, “We take care of our own.”
I had never seen the Christian community come together like that week. Money, furnishings, medical supplies, and even daily care volunteers came in. Someone knew of a modest assisted-living home that would take them both at a discount. The answer was adequate but not flawless.
Grandma walked faster than ever the day we transferred her into Grandpa’s new room. She put her arms around him without waiting for me to place her luggage down, crying. I hadn’t heard him call for his “little mouse” in months.
Because she was there.
Love goes beyond significant situations. It goes beyond weddings and anniversaries. The modest sacrifices, loyalty, and determination to stay when the world pulls you apart are what it’s about.
If you liked this story and think love should never be separated by money, share it. Let people know that occasionally a community can keep love alive.
