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Numbness.
I came in to the office and found a message from Andy--"Call me when you get in." I did, and he asked if I was sitting down.
That question always leads to worry and brief, dreadful imaginings.
I was sitting down.
My grandmother has died.
My immediate feeling was relief--I'd been thinking something horrible had happened to my mother, or to Vijay. My grandmother was in her 90s and in poor health: this is sad, but not a huge surprise.
I got off the phone, and am trying to eat my breakfast. The tea is okay, the roll seems horribly dry.
I don't know what happens next: I can't reach my mother. But I do know that I have no grandparents left. I grew up with four.
My mother is an orphan.
I'm not crying, but I feel vaguely unsteady. I type. I look at messages. I'll do things on the computer, get through the workday until I find out when the funeral is, and whether my mother will be staying on my couch.
We'll get through this. There are forms, and customs, and people to support each other.
I'm not ready for this. As ready as one ever is, but not.
It is suddenly a great comfort that I visited Grandma a couple of weeks ago, and spent most of the afternoon after our Christmas party. She asked the same questions over and over--her short-term memory was almost gone by then, but she was happy to talk with any of her grandchildren, offer us tea and listen to the details of our lives.
My grandmother's life was long, and often difficult. But she came out in a good place, and got her daughters here as well.
I have her white hair, that the other women used to ask about because they wanted that color. I hope I have her strength.
In memoriam, Amalia Kanner.
I came in to the office and found a message from Andy--"Call me when you get in." I did, and he asked if I was sitting down.
That question always leads to worry and brief, dreadful imaginings.
I was sitting down.
My grandmother has died.
My immediate feeling was relief--I'd been thinking something horrible had happened to my mother, or to Vijay. My grandmother was in her 90s and in poor health: this is sad, but not a huge surprise.
I got off the phone, and am trying to eat my breakfast. The tea is okay, the roll seems horribly dry.
I don't know what happens next: I can't reach my mother. But I do know that I have no grandparents left. I grew up with four.
My mother is an orphan.
I'm not crying, but I feel vaguely unsteady. I type. I look at messages. I'll do things on the computer, get through the workday until I find out when the funeral is, and whether my mother will be staying on my couch.
We'll get through this. There are forms, and customs, and people to support each other.
I'm not ready for this. As ready as one ever is, but not.
It is suddenly a great comfort that I visited Grandma a couple of weeks ago, and spent most of the afternoon after our Christmas party. She asked the same questions over and over--her short-term memory was almost gone by then, but she was happy to talk with any of her grandchildren, offer us tea and listen to the details of our lives.
My grandmother's life was long, and often difficult. But she came out in a good place, and got her daughters here as well.
I have her white hair, that the other women used to ask about because they wanted that color. I hope I have her strength.
In memoriam, Amalia Kanner.