A Journey Through Grief

July 19, 2000 – Lockport, New York

As I walk in the back door to the apartment where Gram lived for the last 12 years I almost forget why I am here and expect to see her sitting in her favorite easy chair in the living room. I almost call out, "Gram, I'm here."

Three days ago, she died unexpectedly in this apartment and was whisked away, but everything waits for her return. Onions and bread on the counter. Plants by the window. Placemats on the table.

I will be staying here in Gram’ apartment with Mom who has put fresh linens on Gram's bed for me. I will sleep in her room, in her bed. 

My brother Dave (who lives nearby in Rochester) brings in my suitcase from the car and asks me if there is anything of Gram's that I want. A few minutes later, my mother also asks me that. It is a practical request, as the apartment will need to be emptied soon, but I am upset by the thought of poking through Gram's belongings. It is too soon, too personal. They are her things.

And yet later, I do it. I lift off lids to jewelry boxes, pull open dresser drawers, and look at the teacups in the china cabinet. I riffle through the clothes in her closet, peer into the bags of yarn and fabric, and open shoeboxes.

Partly I am curious.  Faced with Gram’s death I wonder how she lived.  My visits didn’t provide enough clues.  So, I look at the comfortable elastic-waist polyester pants, the lotions in the nightstand drawer, the bits of china collected over a lifetime. I marvel at all the vitamins and herbal supplements. I linger over the photo albums of Gram as a young woman posing with girlfriends and beaus. She was stylish and beautiful and the photos show scenes of beach outings, house parties and concerts in a park.

I have made it back in time for the second viewing at Lange's Funeral Home. For a few minutes we chat with the funeral director Amy whom, it turns out, went to high school with Dave and me. And for a few minutes I forget that my grandmother is in the next room, dead, fixed up for display.

Gram looks so small in the casket and indeed she had been losing weight all spring. Blue was her favorite color and she will be buried in a periwinkle blue dress. Her wedding and engagement rings are on her hands as always, though they will not be buried with her, but passed along to her daughters. Amy has polished my grandmother's fingernails a delicate coral color.

Mom and I comment on her smooth skin and Amy mentions the effects of the embalming fluid. From most angles Gram looks like herself and I long to touch her hair and hands. I almost do but something in me recoils.  I have never touched a dead person.  Suppose her skin feels hard or cold or sticky from makeup?

There are a dozen or so bouquets in the room. Mom purchased flowers for my brothers Dave and Dan, and me. It is a huge arrangement with white and pink flowers and makes a grand display. It is pretty, but not what I would have picked. I would have selected a nosegay of violets, for that is the flower that will always be connected in my mind to Gram. At one time she had hundreds of African violets in the north-facing windows of her house.

In a quiet moment I ask Amy the request that has been passed along from my oldest daughter Natasha. I ask for a lock of my grandmother's hair. I have no idea where Natasha got this idea, but it was of great importance to her and she beseeched me several times before I left not to forget. Amy was happy to oblige and the lock is later passed along to me in a little box.

I had wanted some token from my daughters present. Tasha drew a picture of a lion with the words; "The Lord has spoken." She had thought of this on her own. Throughout the viewing Natasha's drawing has been propped inside the casket. The picture will be buried with Gram.

Family, friends, and church members visit. I chat and even laugh once or twice. I am touched that Cindy and Nancy, cousins on my father's side of the family, visit. Members of the King's Daughters conduct a brief candle ceremony at 9:00 p.m. in remembrance of Gram's many contributions to the organization. I did not want the viewing to end knowing that this is the last time I will see her. But it is time and we are all tired.

I sleep uneasily. I have come here with a cold and the medication makes me jittery. And I am sad. And the ticking clock is loud. And the funeral is tomorrow morning. And I am lying in Gram’s bed, surrounded by Gram’s things, thinking this is all wrong.