My dear grandmother, the beautiful and infamous Sylvia Parietti-Halldorson, passed away on March 8th, at age 100. She was quite a force.
Although I realize it was a tremendous blessing to have her with us for so long, to know my children had meaningful relationships with their great-grandmother that they will carry forward, I feel the void of her physical absence with my whole being.
My grandma had been having strokes and TIAs the past few years, and suffered from a massive stroke about a month ago, which left the left side of her body paralyzed. For the first time in her 100 years, she was immobile and struggled to speak. She could barely open her eyes, so they remained mostly closed.
I’m incredibly grateful for the dialogue we were able to have during my several trips to visit her these past few weeks. As her veil became thinner and she clearly moved in and out of different realms, she was able to express what she needed to each of her loved ones… what a gift.
I witnessed how her daughters, family members, and friends processed her state in their own ways, and how she gracefully navigated her conversations with them accordingly.
To me, this was clearly the end of the road for her. I knew that instinctively and talked with her about it. My grandma had been expressing for years that she’d had such a wonderfully complete life and was ready to go at any time. She’d been largely able to maintain her independence, travels, and adventures… until now. I knew she didn’t want to live like this.
So we had conversations about her passing. She told me she had a pack on that was so heavy. “Grandma… are you ready to put it down?” I asked, silent tears running down my face. Yes, she said through her nod. “You’ve carried that heavy pack such a long time… longer than most are able to.” Yes, she said through her smile. “It’s so hard to put down, though, isn’t it?” She responded with a big nod, as she squeezed my hand tighter.
She strained to lean forward, eyes closed, and spoke the words: “Can you help me?”
I can’t recall how I replied, but I think I choked out something like “Of course… I’ll do my best. But God’s got this.”
I traveled back to Idaho that day to bring my aunt home, with plans to return the next day. It was really hard to leave. I just wanted to be by her side. That evening, as my husband and kids cleaned up after dinner, I sat down at the piano, my grandmother’s words running through my mind. This song, recorded on my iPhone, came forth:
I put my family to bed and knew I had to record something better that my grandmother could actually listen to. So I did. The version shared here is my first draft, which took about 3 total hours to record. I laid down the piano track (one take). I didn’t have all of the words planned, so I sang improvisationally (one take). I recorded two rounds of background vocals (one take each). Then I spent some time editing to adjust volumes and created a rudimentary mix. I added some reverb and compression to the vocals. No auto-tuning or AI.
I wanted to stay up into the wee hours of the night to keep working on it, but didn’t, as I was planning to wake up early and head back to Washington again with my sister the next morning. I resisted the urge to add more or perfect what I’d recorded —- I just needed something my grandmother could hear.
The act of fully immersing myself in this process, the vibrations experienced from heartfelt singing, the satisfaction that came from expressing my message to Grandma through song —- this is my medicine.
And it was my best attempt to fulfil my promise to her.
The next day, we traveled to visit her again. She was out the hospital and officially in hospice care, experiencing the joy of being home, and with constant visitors. She was rallying a bit!
We slowly talked about many things, including the transition she was in, and how hard it was for her to let go. I fought to hear every word, giving her sips of water as she strained to speak.
She again asked me to help.
I spent the night on the floor by her bed, talking to her, holding her hand at times, and working with the caregiver to turn her every few hours. It was very hard to leave the next day, but life called. My son had a ski race that I was not going to miss.
It didn’t yet feel right to play her my song.
I spent the next week with my family, engaged in our normal routine and happy to be grounded and home. My mom, her sisters, and full-time angelic caregivers were tending to my grandmother around the clock, and I planned another visit the following week.
I got my mom’s call on Sunday, March 8th, that things had shifted. My grandma’s breathing was heavy and labored, she hadn’t been responsive for a while, and there were a few other telling signs.
I quickly made arrangements and journeyed back to Washington that evening. My mom and I spoke on the way and agreed it was time for her to share my song. I listened to music and prayed as I drove, hoping to make it.
I was an hour or so too late. I am okay with that, as I feel that these things unfold as they’re meant to. My mom and one of her dear caregivers were by her side as she took her last breath.
My song did get played, and according to my mom, she swears she saw my grandmother respond to it, barely perceptibly — but there was an acknowledgement. And my grandmother left her body shortly thereafter.
When I arrived, I sat and held her hand for a long time. Her face was peaceful. She was home.
There is so much more to say, but I’ll close with the immense gratitude I feel to have had her as our matriarch for 47 years of my life. Her presence will persist.
She left very big shoes to fill.
I’m so honored to have had her as my grandmother. Thank you, Grandma.
<3 Mikkel
I am a musician, educator, holistic practitioner, and founder of Aethers Reach.
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