Normal is a relative thing. We are constantly, it seems, redefining and adjusting our normal. Most of those adjustments are relatively small; throughout our lives, we, at least a handful of times, have to reorient our lives in ways that are inconceivable until we're living through them.
We're all going through the latter now, dealing with Nana's passing and all the changes that come with that.
We go through things for the first time, like sitting in a mortuary discussing options, choosing things we'd never really considered, like which urn, how many death certificates, which guest book.
We write things we'd never written, which sometimes break rules we'd always followed -- an obituary is absolutely filled with passive voice: "She is survived by..." "She was preceded by..." "She is remembered by..."
We have conversations we'd never had, like discussions about what songs we might like at a memorial, when to have a final moment with someone, when to have a memorial.
And yet in the midst of all these experiences we'd never want to have, little changes sparkle with joy. Papa steadfastly stayed by Nana's side for the last several years as her condition worsened, giving up church, giving up concerts, soccer games, and other things because he refused to leave her side. Now, with the thought that Nana's most basic wish would be that he get out and live, those things are happening. Sitting around the small fire as the Boy makes smores; going to a small, end-of-the-year award ceremony; sitting on the back deck with me, sipping some scotch and reveling in fond memories.
We begin to catch our breath and move on. It is, after all, what Nana would want.
