My friends only talk to each other. They don't talk with their parents very much. I asked them. And, we go talk. I didn't used to care for Grandmother Beer very much, but now I love her, and I want to see her in heaven.
Some background is needed here . . .
Her maternal Grandmother Beer died two and a half years ago at the age of 69 after more than 25 years of a hard struggle with Parkinson's disease. Now, as she's monitored her own child-sized struggles with pain, depression, and frustration, as she's watched her own body refuse to cooperate with her will, as she's lain awake for hours in the middle of the night because the decadron won't let her sleep, she has obviously reprocessed a great many memories of Grandmother Beer. This viewpoint is one most parents would be thrilled to offer their child, but would probably be wary of doing so. I would be. It sounds so Pollyanna-esque, coming from someone who has no brain tumor.