A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
When I first met her I had no idea what she would one day mean to me. I couldn't imagine loving another mother figure because mine is all that any daughter could ask for. The days leading up to her death are blurry now; I had been told that she would not wake up again but how would I explain her prolonged sleep to my daughter? We visited Grandma in the hospital every day, whispered softly in her ear, held her hand and kissed her gently. My daughter clung to her dad in his arms unable to look at Grandma's swollen face and neck. Becoming sick is nasty business and my daughter could no longer be sheltered from the reality that living - and loving - come at a price.
It was then that I became aware of the depth of my husband's compassion. Without hesitation he cradled his mother's face in his hands and stroked her as if she were his, as if he were giving her permission to do what she needed to do. One by one, with his lead, family and friends surrounding her, coming in and out to take one long, last breath with a woman who had loved each of them unconditionally, said Goodbye.
She slept for the next 4 days. My husband worked in the mornings, showered and drove us over the hill to the hospital. My daughter brought her homework and I brought snacks. She wrote in her composition book about the drive to see Grandma and how it made her sad. She reminded me that Grandma had promised her a sleep over when she got out of the nursing home, then out of the hospital. I sat, frozen, wondering how Grandma's death would change our family. I knew my daughter was experiencing challenges developmentally that when met with trauma could have lasting impact. I worried.
On Friday morning just after 7:00, my husband got the call from his sister. Grandma had passed away, peacefully, with a close family friend at her side. With tears in his eyes he reached for me and cried. I hadn't seen him cry since our wedding day, since our daughter was born. I was flushed with anxiety. I didn't know if I would be able to contain the strong feelings my daughter and husband would experience but I knew I needed to do it or else my daughter would... might... could... what? I was frightened for her, for us. I had all of this knowledge in my brain but couldn't make sense of it. Immediate grief has no language, no understanding, only bold, crescendo like movement and force that pounds on your heart and senses.
Over the next 4 weeks or so I watched a story unfold. My daughter had become increasingly irritable, whiny, and argumentative. She began to take her anger out on me. At the playground she ran off from me instead of into my arms. She was defiant. She withdrew affection from people she loved, she wasn't making eye contact with them, she was standoffish. Someone else was inhabiting my daughter and I wanted my daughter back. I was embarrassed. I should know how to manage my child at school, in public, under watchful eyes. I heard my husband yell at her... I was yelling at her. I went to work, closed the door to my office and contemplated canceling my clients. I looked around my office and wondered what I would do if my daughter was a client of mine. I blamed Grandma for dying, I apologized to her for dying, I wondered what we would learn from her death, what gift was she going to give us for sticking it out without her? I found some literature on grief and put it face down on a pile of papers I had no intention of going through.
Grandma was different from anyone I had known in my life. What was special about her was that she was truly nonjudgmental. She saw into you and knew what was special about you. She could barely take care of herself, but she was a caretaker of souls. The months leading up to her death were painful for her and for us who loved her. We had taken our daughter to see her at the nursing home and sat outside with her on the patio. I returned to memories of my own grandmother residing in the Jewish Home for the Aged... the memories brought flashes of my bubbie and the elderly inhabitants whose tattoos were visible on their arms. At least we were in the sun eating croissant sandwiches and Grandma was talking to us, even if it didn't make much sense.
We rode out the most difficult weeks of defiance and melt downs. I visualized an apex and saw us near the top. I knew we were there. My daughter picked up her play phone and called her grandma. This was no ordinary phone. This was a spirit phone and she could talk to Grandma at night and ask her questions. We made a stepping-stone and decorated it with flowers, butterflies and glitter glue. We read books about what happens when you die. I saw her reading the books on her own and even sharing them with her best friend. We reassured our presence and our love for her. We shared stories of Grandma and went through family photos. She brought out her stuffed turtle given to her at Grandma's bedside. The last thing Grandma had said before falling asleep, her last sleep that led to coma was to her daughter, "Give this to Maya and tell her I love her."
My daughter and I were in the car when she said, Mom, why didn't I get to have the sleep over with Grandma before she died? What did I do wrong? And there it was, the message I was looking for... small words that conveyed the mystery of her grief and the meaning of her anger. That pathetic silver lining that sounds so meaningless in the experience of grief and loss... the meaning of it all... didn't seem so illusive anymore but rather poignant. My 7 year old had captured her pain and gave it words.