Before that Day

On that day, I sat on an uncomfortable, black chair in a stuffy funeral home; I stared blankly at the slideshow being displayed on a projector screen. My feet were sore from standing in four-inch, black suede heels I bought a couple months earlier for a friend’s wedding. My face became increasingly dry behind the pink, cotton face mask I bought because the Coronavirus was still at large. I felt chilly in the silky, floral, maroon dress bought just for this occasion. Forcefully I sat still, intentionally staring straight ahead; I had asked Alex, the friend-of-the-year, to sit beside me. My request made with the fingers-crossed hope I could hide behind her. I desired to find shelter in the shadow of someone nobody expected a single thing from. I envied her rightful place in the background, and how she could comfortably sit in silence and not battle the guilt of feeling unaffected. To my relief, my plan worked well. There was not a part of me ready to be asked, “How are you doing?” I knew I didn’t really have an answer—not an answer that was properly suited for the occasion. I knew I was expected to be emotional, and it would be appropriately assumed I was still processing the shock. I just wanted to ask them, “How didn’t you see this coming?”  

On that day, the beautiful woman they all came to honor and mourn was my grandmother, Catherine. (As far as I know, she has always gone by Cathy.) She shares a tale many have heard before: First, the decline is slow. You notice them becoming easily confused, and then, finding yourself just as confused as them. Soon an actual conversation is hard to come by, and you try to appreciate the fact they’re alive. (At least, we got a warning sign.) Then, you get the call from the nursing home that they overnight became unresponsive and now they’re on their deathbed. My mother and her sisters each took their turn sitting by her bedside, knowing they were awaiting her final breath. Within about a week of the doctor’s first call, she was dead. Even though we spent a week awaiting the inevitable, most of the family felt unprepared for her passing. It hit many of us hard. I understood what they were experiencing, but to say I experienced it too, would be a lie. My truth is much different, and I had to hold it back. I would have sounded cold and heartless. Is there a loving way to say: “She was angry, bitter, and oftentimes rude. She smoked gross cigarettes while hooked up to an oxygen tank that was put in place to save her from that very habit. She drank to get through every day and needed it to sleep. Before I graduated high school, I had already accepted she wouldn’t meet my kids, and probably never meet my husband. If adolescent me could see, how didn’t you see this coming?” 

On that day, without looking around the room, I knew many guests’ attire of choice incorporated floral in some capacity. In honor of her, all of us granddaughters wore floral tops or dresses or flowers in our hair. I came up with that idea and diligently followed up with all my sisters to ensure it happened. I believe it was my heart’s attempt to connect with her. I knew that she loved flowers, plants, and her garden. (I believe her favorite were gardenias.) I love those things, too. I like to tell people that I inherited that love from her, as if interests were passed through genetics. I always wondered, if things were different, if we would have shared tips with each other; I know I could have learned a lot from her. But I didn’t get the chance to learn anything from her. Instead, I learned she didn’t care for herself the way she cared for her garden. Of course, I saw this coming. 

On that day, the room continued to be filled with sniffles, sobs, and sympathetic apologies. I sat and fought the desire to get up and leave. My mind was in constant battle with itself. If I wasn’t going to mourn her passing or have a story to share, what place do I have sitting among the others, who actually did, in this uncomfortable chair? I wanted to cry like they did and laugh when they did. Instead I didn’t find a reason to cry nor a laughable memory. I was just angry at myself and frustrated with the mask I had to wear on my face. My mind reminding me that it’s my grandmother’s day, and she deserved a better version of me. If I could not offer that to her on her day, I could at the very least remain quiet and out of everyone else’s way. So that is what I did. I sat in silence and watched the service, with guilt swirling inside. Why was I the only one who saw this coming? 

On that day, I thought about the hours leading up to it. A couple weeks prior, I had been asked by my mother to write a speech because, “You’re the writer in the family after all.” Politely, I declined in the name of anxiety. What was I going to say? “I have so many fun memories visiting grandma in the hospital when she’d trip because she was tipsy and bruised her rib! It was always an adventure!” No, of course not; so I used my anxiety as the reason I must decline. Since I knew non-perfectionists, non-writers would be the ones sharing, I had to require myself to not judge their amateur speeches (stressful times can truly bring out the worst in us). Little did I know, sitting and listening to them, I wouldn’t find anything to judge. Instead, I got to meet a Cathy I had never met before. This Cathy had ginger-red hair, wore makeup—and loved wearing lipstick—, hosted parties with friends, and traveled the world with her husband. This Cathy was much lighter and much happier. This Cathy didn’t have to dye her hair red. This Cathy had the mental energy to put on makeup. This Cathy could hide her drinking problem under the guise of being young. And this Cathy wasn’t dealing with the weight of losing her husband to suicide. I cried when I met her and I did not judge her; she’s my grandmother. I was finally feeling something. I did not see that coming. 

On that day, I did authentically cry, even if it was only for a brief moment. Although it was only a brief moment, it opened the door for me to later uncover some joyful and funny memories that I did have of my dear grandmother. Like the time she read us grandkids a book about poop. And the time she almost fell down the stairs laughing because of a stuffed reindeer that sang “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” And how she danced in the driveway in her nightgown when we arrived for a visit. And her enthusiastic compliment “good job!” to anything her grandkids did, like dress themselves, at age thirteen. There are a lot of beautiful memories to see. 

Before that day, I didn’t foresee having any loving memories. I didn’t foresee her celebration of life being memorable. I may have seen this day coming, so I chose to grieve before it came, but I didn’t see the day coming with freedom. The freedom to say: Grandma, I love you and you didn’t deserve being mourned before you were gone.