The Grieving Process

It was our first Christmas without her.

It hadn’t been the virus, which had mercifully left our family mostly untouched, though it came to affect us in different way, heartbreaking in its own right. No, it was nothing so complex and deadly. In the end it was a rug. An ordinary, stupid, wipe-your-feet-before-you-come-inside ugly shag rug. How can such an insignificant thing, utterly forgotten since it was bought and slapped down by the slider door, how can that have ripped our lives in two? Simple. A raised corner had caught her foot. She had fallen, sprained her ankle. Then it was the boot, and lost mobility, and rehab, and then she just didn’t have the strength.

In that period of time I thought of all of the missed opportunities that I could have taken to visit her and hadn't. I thought of how she always knew it was me that was calling, because I was the only one that called her "Grandmother". I felt like I had taken for granted the fact that I could have shown up at any time at her house, and that such a little thing like that would have meant so much. Now, when she needed us the most, we couldn't just pop in for a visit, though we so desperately wanted to. So we stood outside and waved through the window, unable to enter because of health hazards, or we chatted with her on the phone. For her birthday, we had a little parade for her outside of her rehabilitation center. Everybody had signs, and we took turns going up to the window to say hello. God, she was so delighted by that. She blew kisses at us, and though I couldn’t hear it, I knew how her laugh would sound behind the glass; an almost childlike giggle that always ended with a sigh.

Then one night in early October I got a call from my dad, and as soon as I saw his name pop up on the screen, I felt it; that awful tide that rolls through your blood that presages grief.

Be ready to say your goodbyes, he said.

There’s never a good time to say your farewells to the woman responsible for at least a quarter of your upbringing, but this was an especially terrible time to have to do it. Once again, we stood outside her room at the rehab center, waving awkwardly while she raised a weak arm to blow kisses at us for the last time. We mouthed I Love You’s. With such a limited amount of visitors allowed, the grandkids got the short end of the stick. No hugs. No holding her fragile hands. Unable, even, to hear her voice without the use of a phone. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so powerless or inadequate.

I held it together then. I don’t say that out of pride. I wanted to cry. I think it’s necessary to cry. But I couldn’t, and I wondered what was wrong with me. The funeral came and went, and she had wished for the grandsons to be her pallbearers, a wish that broke something inside of me. Still I didn’t shed any tears, though my head felt full of them. The closest I came was seeing my dad and his brothers and sisters crying silently at different times of the day. We so rarely got together with them outside of Christmas or the occasional reunion, and I had never seen any of them cry before.

The next few weeks were filled with constant reminders of her. It was the most that my dad’s side had gotten together in my memory, and it felt good, overshadowed though it was by her absence. We were eager to keep that going. Grandma had always been the thread that stitched the family together, and we made promises that we would honor the Christmas traditions that she had been so keen on. And for the most part, we did.

Christmas came, and most of us got together. Some were understandably wary of the virus, and sent their love and Christmas cheer safely from afar. A significantly diminished group of us made the journey to my aunt’s house, some a bit guiltily, others less so. I knew that I had to go, despite the circumstances. Mostly I went for my aunt, who had been so worried that our family would simply dissolve our bonds with Grandma’s passing, but I needed it too.

It was a subdued gathering, but not without some cheer. I felt closer to them than I had since I was a kid. When it came time for presents, we were surprised to find that my aunt had taken over Grandma’s tradition of getting everybody a small gift, which was no mean feat; in a normal year, there were upwards of thirty of us spanning four generations. She was having a tough time of it, constantly apologizing for her tears, though we kept assuring her that her apologies were ridiculous.

We ate a beautiful dinner, then it was time for dessert, and the table was laden with almond cookies and Rice Krispie treats, the same exact variety of goodies that had been on offer since I was little. When I imagine dad’s family Christmas, the dessert table is the vision that comes to mind. I filled a small plate, and realized what was missing. No, missing is too weak a word. There was a gaping void in the table where Grandma’s chocolate pudding cake should have been.

Last year, I had offered to pick Grandma up from her house for our Christmas celebration, and in the tumult of getting her and her cane, walker, and gifts into the car, I had forgotten to grab the cake. I hadn’t realized it until we had gotten almost all the way to my aunt’s, which was about a twenty mile drive, but as soon as I remembered, I turned around and went back for it on that frigid, snowy morning. She wouldn’t have made me do that, but I know it would have broken her heart to show up without it. I don’t know how she did it, year after year, especially in the later years when her mobility was on the downturn. Baking a cake is not exactly a trifling affair, but each Christmas, she would somehow arrive with this masterpiece of a cake, triple layered and swirled with frosting, decorated with tiny candies shaped like mistletoe, secured in a heavy-duty Tupperware made just for cakes.

Just like that, the dam broke. The table of desserts swam in my vision, and I excused myself to the bathroom and finally cried. Such a silly thing, a cake, but I was so grateful to it then, for at last allowing my mind to set loose the grief and loss that had been gathered there. I think it was the realization that she put into that cake the same love and care she put into everything, in her slow, comforting way. It reminded me of how, though I was one of twelve grandkids and a whole mess of great-grandkids, she had the ability to make you feel set apart, singular, and uniquely loved. It was tied indelibly to her in my memory, like Christmas, Beanie Babies, and Chicken á la King. I miss her and love her so much.

Maybe next year, if it’s possible, I will try and find that recipe card, tucked away with other meager belongings from her long and lovely life, and read through her graceful script. Maybe I will bring that cake to our Christmas gathering, hopefully full to bursting with all of our family present once more, and place it gently on the table between the Rice Krispies and the cookies, and we can celebrate the life that she gave to all of us.