By Bethany Ellis
My grandmother, who I always called Edie, was a key role model throughout my life. She embraced me every time I saw her, and she was always genuinely happy to see me.
The name “Edie” didn’t come out of thin air. It started when a neighbor boy couldn’t pronounce her real name, Rita. The rest was history. Her father began calling her Edie, and eventually, it became her grandmother name. I cannot imagine calling her anything else—it fit her perfectly.
Edie was kind, faithful, loving, and supportive. I remember walking into her house as a child and sometimes finding her sitting in her chair with her miniature dachshund, Dottie, curled up in her lap. When Dottie would get up and wander, I would gently pet her, and Edie would remind me, every single time, that Dottie was blind. She adored Dottie and dachshunds in general. Other times, I would find my Poppa there while Edie rested in bed. She had frequent headaches, but as a child, I barely noticed.
One of my favorite memories of Edie was when I was six years old. Edie, my mom, her best friend, and I went to Disney World for my birthday. My mom and her friend went on a ride while Edie took me shopping. She bought me a pink and purple Renaissance princess hat with Minnie Mouse ears. That trip was special because Edie was fully herself, and the four of us had a blast together.
Edie was always there for her family when she could be. She attended plays, performances, and other events throughout my childhood. Sometimes we would celebrate afterward with a trip to Braum’s for ice cream.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my Poppa asked me to stay with Edie a few times a week while he ran errands. That’s when I began to notice changes. Those headaches and repeated reminders about Dottie were signs of dementia, and it was progressing fast. I would sit with her at the kitchen table as she asked about my homework. I always said no. She would walk to the pantry and bring me a snack—either a Kellogg’s strawberry protein bar or peanut butter-filled pretzels—and a cup of water. In her mind, she was still taking care of me. Those visits were quiet, but they were precious, and I treasured every moment with Edie.
In January 2021, Edie moved into memory care. At first, she struggled, often trying to follow us when we left. As time passed, visiting became harder. She barely spoke, and when she did, we couldn’t always understand her. Still, she welcomed hugs and smiled often. I believe she knew, deep down, that we belonged to her.
One of the most tender moments I witnessed was near the end of Poppa’s life, when Edie was brought to see him. She lay quietly at the foot of his bed. Even when memory faded, love remained. Edie was deeply in love with Poppa—they were married for 62 years and had two children, my uncle Doug and my mother, Christa.
On January 21, 2026, Edie’s battle with Alzheimer’s came to an end. She had struggled for many years, but I am certain she is in Heaven, reunited with Poppa, her older sister, and her parents, in a place without suffering. I will graduate from OBU in May, and I will wear a purple Alzheimer’s awareness cord in her honor. I know I will see her again one day.
