My 95-Year-Old Grandma Saved My Life When No One Else Could. Then She Did It Again — Months After Her Death.

When I visited my family in Montreal after spending two weeks in a psych ward abroad, I quickly understood one thing: I would be living out of my carry-on while my family figured out what to do with me.

The first weeks were excruciating. My mom dragged me on morning walks around the hilly neighborhood, my father was oddly quiet, and mentioning my institutionalization was not permitted in the household. Despite the utter exhaustion, there was one outing I adored: visiting my Grandma Bevy. On the cusp of 95, the most fashionable nonagenarian in town saw past my failures and toward my future accomplishments, despite my itchy feelings of hopelessness.

Whenever I was hospitalized due to a bipolar episode, Grandma Bevy would call me on the spotty landline in the white-on-white-on-frightful hallway. I’d will myself out of bed in my oversized scrubs and bring a “psych ward safe” flexible pen to document her wisdom.

My parents never understood my motives for admitting myself inpatient: most often, a calculated plan involving stockpiled prescriptions. However, from hundreds of miles away, Grandma Bevy repeated over the phone, “I’m proud of you.”

When I overdosed on pills in 2019 and received my diagnosis, she announced, “It will be OK, sweetheart. It isn’t right now, but you’ll get through it.” Her determined voice got me to discharge.

That same voice would get me through this next chapter of my life in Montreal, as I tried to claw my way out of the grave that I had dug for myself in a fast-paced metropolitan city.

As a 30-year-old single woman plagued with mental illness, routine was essential to my executive functioning. Consistency helped me maintain equanimity. My grandmother’s daily phone calls became daily coffee