How my daughter won’t have the same “grandmother” experience that I had and how that is okay
My mother died of advanced breast cancer in 2014. The pain endured from grief and loss has softened over time, though not forgotten.
Mom left us too soon. She was only 72 years old. But I lived the reality of her pain and suffering and came to accept that it was time.
Her death was significant for my daughter, though. For when Mom died, that meant the loss of another grandmother. That changed everything.
You see, besides my beloved mom, my maternal grandmother was my next best friend. She was present at my birth. She saw me take my first steps. She was the doting Nana all through my childhood and gave the best hugs. She wrote me letters reminding me how much she loved me. She beamed as I walked down the aisle at my wedding. We laughed together and cried together, and sometimes we did not see things the same way. We shared many a pot of tea, and when I was older, I joined her and my grandfather for Happy Hour. When she moved to a warmer climate, we would chat late into the night about everything and nothing in particular. Her eyes sparkled with joy when she held my six-month-old daughter, and as frail as she was then, she relished every moment with her.
The bond with my grandmother was like no other.
While she lay near death, I grasped her warm hand in mine. She still knew who I was, and I held onto that as I sat beside her. I had a lifetime of moments with this woman spanning over 40 years and was grateful for each of them. And I had hoped the same for my daughter.
While Mom was well, those moments I had with my grandmother seemed to repeat themselves. Mom made sure she was present for birthday parties and special events, but even more so, on an ordinary day. Any day was a good day when she spent time with her granddaughter.
But when Mom became sick, those roles were reversed. It was my daughter who joined me for her appointments and treatments. She made Mom laugh despite her illness and pain. She sat with her at her bedside when she was near death. And, she stood by me as they rolled her coffin out the church door.
I remember quite clearly a phone call with my mother in the fall before she died. Her pain was becoming all-consuming. She was often breathless and exhausted.
I tried to distract her, talked about plans for Christmas, a visit from her siblings, or even the upcoming high school graduation for my daughter. But Mom told me she probably won’t be here.
I felt a lump in my throat and told her that would not happen, but Mom knew, even then.
Mom died three months before graduation. All I could think of was how ripped off I felt for my daughter. At the age of 17, there was so much more to come, but all of it without a grandma. She could no longer call her when she wanted to chat. Nor could she share the things you only shared with a grandma. Her Nana would not be at her wedding, nor see her first baby. She would never hug her ever again or tell her that she loved her. I had all of those things with my Nana, and she would not.
So even while I miss my mother, I also feel sad for my daughter. She was robbed of precious time with both of her grandmothers.
But there is a silver lining, even in our losses. My grandmother taught me that. We can choose to allow ourselves to be drawn into the vortex of no return and relish in our sadness. Or we can move forward even with the pain of grief and find comfort in the small things we remember.
Over the years, my daughter has cherished both grandmothers in so many ways. She honours them by lighting a candle, visiting their graves, or cooking a meal they once enjoyed together. Her grief has been replaced with love. Great love won’t disappear. From that love comes lasting memories, stored in the heart, never to be forgotten.
Copyright (c) 2020 all rights reserved, Jackie Kierulf, writer
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