My contribution to this week’s subject at Women’s Perspective: Loss, grief and transformation
November 29th:
Martine brought up the question of grief, loss and transformation and I thought I am not sure how to even get around the subject. I’ve lost people, loved ones. To death and in other ways. So if that happened, then I must know what grief is, right? No, not really. Because all I know is how I dealt with my losses. I am no expert and I am thankful for that.
The first thing that came to mind was my grandparents and their house out in the outskirts of our town. The loss of the place where I always enjoyed myself with them. That children’s paradise.
But they say home is not a place but the people. And it’s true. Their next house was in town. Somewhat bigger house, so much smaller property. The house is still there and whenever I pass by, and that doesn’t happen often given I live now on a different continent, I always feel a pang of sadness. I still miss them. The two people whose love for me was always crystal clear.
My grandpa had Parkinson’s and that was the main reason for their move. I remember him walking up and down first on the street, on the sidewalk, later when that became too much, under the covered side porch of their house, for exercise. I remember the nurse’s frequent visits to help him with different issues and that when she was there, I needed to go outside.
I remember the heavy wooden doors of the kitchen. The outer one without a window, the inner one half glass, half solid. The mirror and my grandmother’s embroidered comb holder, in the corner, hanging on the wall, underneath the free standing wrought iron stand holding the white enamel wash basin, a bar of soap and a towel on the side… I can still see her combing her hair before heading out. Further in the kitchen she had the tiled wood burning fireplace, with its built-in oven, behind it, on the opposite wall was her kitchen cabinet, next to it the bench, where my grandpa used to sit by the table. The television was always on when he was in the kitchen, always so loud when he watched it. So I went to the main room, which was on the street side of the house. I took something out from one of the nightstands that was under that free standing full size mirror and got myself busy with drawing, knitting or if not that, then I was outside, in her flower bed or in the back room of the house that opened from the porch, and which had all kind of old and broken things to check out.
Some days he was in the big room, sitting by the window, reading one of his books and I let him be, I went to the kitchen to ask my grandmother questions of how and why she was doing things and if I could help.
Thinking about them now I just realized how my dad was so-so similar to his father when he got ill, how he walked the same way, how he looked so tired and while he always told me to lift my legs up as I walk, now he shuffled. I rarely put my hands on my waist, because he told me not to, it’s rude, not at all lady-like.
I lost my paternal grandparents 30 years ago, my father nearly 7 years ago. I don’t know what it is that I feel. I remember how I sat there at my grandfather’s funeral as the cantor was singing ‘his’ Good-bye letter to us. How that room was so cold, chilling even, and I was on one side of the casket along with my dad, mom, my uncle, aunt and cousins. How my younger cousins weren’t even there. How people were sitting opposite of us, looking at us. And I didn’t know what to say, what to feel. I remember how the casket was lowered into the grave and then we gathered at my uncle’s house for lunch. What a weird habit! Why? Why celebrate someone’s departure? I didn’t understand. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry until about 2 weeks later, when I was going somewhere with my best friend and by the gas station I couldn’t hold it together anymore. And then I talked to her non-stop and asked questions and she tried to console me. I wanted reassurances and I wanted to see him again and knew I couldn’t.
My grandmother was wonderful. She endured so much from all her family. From her sister, from her children, from her husband, too, maybe, as I heard, but I don’t remember her ever complaining. About anything. My other grandmother was always saying bad things about them, degrading them for all kinds of reasons, but it was their house, their home where I felt loved and wanted. And so when my grandma fell and broke both a leg and an arm on a winter day and couldn’t care for my ailing grandfather, it was my uncle’s wife who said they needed to go to the nursing home. I wanted them at our house but grandma didn’t want to come because of my dad’s addiction.
Yes, I wanted them there with us, but my aunt didn’t want them so close, right next door and pushed for them to go to the nursing home. There they were together at first, in the same room, but soon they got separated and just a little while after my granddad passed. I remember the smell of the mix of bleach and something else as we passed the bathrooms on the corridors on the way to their rooms. My grandma lost all reasons to be alive. She had nothing to do, nobody to care for, nobody else visiting her but me and occasionally my uncle. One day when I came home from school I was told that she was taken to hospital earlier that day and she too has passed away.
I wanted to buy a car, so I could take her out on the weekends, but now I couldn’t do that. My uncle’s wife felt relieved. One less burden, she thought, like she was thinking of my dad the same way 20 or so years later while he was still breathing…. And I was angry. Because it was her doing they ended up there, that they were left alone, deprived of all reasons to live, all joys they could’ve had! That’s what I thought. And maybe partially still believe it. Would I have lost them anyways? Yes, likely I would. But maybe I would’ve had time to buy that car and repay some of that goodness to my grandma that she’s showered me with.
My dad. There is no day going by not thinking about him. I look in the mirror and I see him. Sometimes the look in my eyes is his. The way I cross my legs, the shape of my hands and my feet. I can hear his rolling laugh, his jokes and as it makes me smile, it digs a deep hole in my chest as well.
I don’t know what grief is. I know I miss them. How has this transformed me? I don’t know how much different I would’ve become if they didn’t die when they did. They could’ve lived 20 years longer each and that would mean that my dad would be still around. But I definitely know that I lost out by their departure. I lost that warmth, that unconditional love that I felt when I was there with them. But at least I could experience it for as long as they were around.
Monday evening:
What kind of losses are there? What is grief? I would say grief must be the feelings that we experience after loss. The deep sadness that makes me cry for my grandparents 30 years after their passing. But I don’t know for sure. It might be the weird thing that when I look in the mirror and recognize my relatives in some of my facial features that can bring me tiny pieces of happiness as well as sadness. That they live on in me. That there is a continuity not only in habits, customs and recipes but in the very blood that runs in my veins and what is now running in my daughter’s.
Loss of a pet or loss of love or friends can be devastating, too.
There are losses that are more commonly experienced and then there are losses that do not affect everyone and if I tried to talk about some of those, simply for the lack of personal experience I would feel like a fraud. I cannot know what it is like losing a child, a baby, thankfully… These are delicate subjects.
If we talk about loss, I feel I need to talk about changes at Women’s Perspective, too.
It might have been lingering under the surface for a while now. An end of a ‘era’, a 2 months long period. I wrote about it in my announcement earlier today here. With this change, along with the sadness that it brings, I feel somewhat relieved as well. Life goes on. We all gained some knowledge and being enriched by it we can continue our work in a more relaxed manner.
If you’d like to read more about Loss, grief and transformation, I can highly recommend Jennifer’s piece who coincidently published her post about it today and I would keep my eyes peeled for a post from Martine as well.
Thank you for your time and in case you can spare some more, join me on Wednesday at 2pm Eastern Time for the 8th Live of WP, too.
Thanks,
H.
This is an essay that is packed with emotion and nostalgia and was a pleasure to read, because it makes you feel. 🙏🖤