Last week, we said goodbye to my grandmother, Janice Allred Datwyler, whom her family called Grandma Jan.
Grandma Jan was a huge part of my life. I grew up only 10 minutes from her house in Provo, Utah, the same house my mom, her brother and her three sisters grew up in. The whole extended family would gather often in her home for Sunday dinners prepared by the best cook I’ve ever known. We never left her house hungry.
I don’t remember an important event in my life that Grandma Jan was not a part of. She and my grandpa never missed a single orchestra concert, school play, graduation, baby shower or child’s birthday. After my husband and I got engaged, the first place I took him was to my grandparents’ home so I could tell them our big news and make sure they approved. They did — after he told them that he enjoyed skiing.
She made every holiday magical with an absurd amount of food and her favorite traditions. As kids, we participated in an Easter scavenger hunt every year, always with the same clues. Every Christmas Eve, we crammed into her pristine white living room to reenact the Nativity and sing carols, despite most of us possessing absolutely no vocal talent. For Thanksgiving, the whole crew would head to Disneyland, where Grandma Jan could be convinced to ride Tower of Terror at least once.
Grandma Jan grew up in orchards and was taught the value of hard work. She instilled that work ethic in her children and grandchildren. “You do it right the first time” was a bit of Allred family wisdom that was passed down to me after a poor attempt at cleaning a room.
She hired her grandchildren to clean her home and mow her lawns and sure, she overpaid us, but she also taught us how to do the work correctly and thoroughly.
She was a real estate entrepreneur and often, when my siblings and I were spending the day with her, she would take us to the apartments she owned and ran, where she would complete one managerial task or another. Everything I learned about running a business as a young child I learned from watching her.
She spoke with confidence and was firm in her convictions. She started most thoughts with “You know something?” and then explained what it was that she knew. We once drove to Salt Lake City together and she spent the entire time trying to convince me to become a dentist. Never mind that I’m squeamish and afraid of blood and generally grossed out by the human mouth — she had a clear vision for my future and made some admittedly compelling arguments.
When I started having children, she was quick to offer her babysitting services. “Heavens yes!” she would declare whenever asked. She once watched my oldest daughter, who was a toddler at the time, and let her build towers with the multipack of Charmin toilet paper she had just bought from Costco. My kids loved spending time in her backyard on the swing set with their cousins.
Before she passed, most of her family was able to gather around her hospital bed to say goodbye, which was a heartbreaking experience and one for which I will always be grateful. We each had an opportunity to hold her frail hand, talk with her and tell her thank you. She was in and out of lucidity at the time, and we’re not sure how much she comprehended about the situation. But I have to believe that she knew what she was saying when she said to me, “Life can be really hard sometimes.”
Grandma Jan knows that better than anyone. During her 88 years of living, she lost two children. Her first baby just 12 hours after she was born, and her oldest son when he was 37.
Witnessing her grief when my uncle died is something I’ve thought about often in the wake of losing my dad eight months ago. She showed me that grief is survivable. And that there is joy to be found in life even after unthinkable loss. That joy, she showed me, was found in caring for others. After his death, she continued to devote her time and attention to her friends and family, to the extent that often had me wondering how she managed to make each of us feel so loved and cared for when she had the same limited hours as the rest of us.
One common theme from the addresses given at her funeral was the frequency with which she asked her loved ones, “What can I do for you?” Even as her health was failing, she continued to sign up with her church congregation to provide meals for funerals and the ill.
When she told me life can be really hard sometimes, she may have been talking about her own situation, lying sick on oxygen in a hospital bed. It certainly would have been an appropriate and truthful sentiment. But the way she said it in her loving tone and the way she looked at me with her kind eyes suggested she was addressing my grief. Which would be very Grandma Jan. To look for those in need of comfort, even in her most painful moments.
It was that selflessness and empathy that defined my Grandma Jan and made for a life so well lived.