When You Lose a Grandparent…

I realize now that I’m unusually lucky. Three of my four grandparents were alive, alert, and very much in my life until I was almost 30 with two children. And two of my grandparents lived to meet all my babies and make memories with them until just this year.

I’ve been thinking a lot about grandparents lately. Truthfully, I’ve never been surprised when someone says one of their grandparents has passed away. If one of my [college] students loses a grandparent, I feel for them, but I still expect them to come to class and complete their work, barring family gathering dates. When friends have lost grandparents, we hug; we check in; but ultimately, life keeps going.

Not because my heart doesn’t feel for the folks who were grieving, but the circle of life is a reality. Our older loved ones eventually move on, we hope as peacefully as possible. We’ve all been stopped in our tracks when a child or a teenager or someone’s parent died, unable to fathom the tragedy; Car wrecks. Cancer. Suicide. Freak accidents. My chest would simply ache for these losses. When we lost Abram, as a stillborn, our world completely changed. The worst-case possibility happened to our own baby. That grief was indescribable. It was dark and jagged and hit in waves all the time. It wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to die.

….Well, what about when it is supposed to happen?

I spoke at a really interesting class at U of L a year ago called “Death and Dying,” which was designed to explore how different cultures approach death. Spoiler alert – we live in a culture that isn’t super comfortable digging into it. We don’t love talking about it; Americans in general don’t love accepting it and often fight to keep loved ones alive far past when their quality-of-life plummets. We don’t like bringing dying up or even saying the words. We sub with “passed on; crossed over; became an angel” etc. We don’t really care to explore how complex death and grief and healing really is.

I thought about this as I had to literally pull over the car on 460 this May because I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t see the road. I was driving to say goodbye to Jean, on a road my brothers and I’d driven a million times throughout our whole childhood. Jean was our last living grandparent, and the idea of a world without her and, as my brother described, a chapter of our lives closing, was simply breaking my heart, to be completely cliché.

Grandad was 57 when he died. I was only 3 months old. My dad’s dad, he was calm, steady, British, an amazing gardener of roses, and everyone seemed to not only love him but deeply appreciate him. Ever since I was little, I wished I could have known him. I ate up details like how very deep his voice was, the outlandish gifts he would surprise a-purse-tight-Grandma with, his mannerisms and traditions. I didn’t know him, but I loved him. And so when my parents remember him, as they often do, so too, do we. I know he went too soon, and there’s a profound grief for those who lost him far too early as a parent, husband, friend, brother. For me, it’s always been a low-grade, enduring ache for what I never knew – a different type of grief.

Grandma never remarried. My mom’s parents divorced when she was 17. So we grew up with three grandparents who lived in what I imagined as a triangle around Virginia Beach. We’d stay at each of their houses for different occasions. Driving 460 to see them in Virginia Beach was a regular part of my life since I was a newborn, as well as their steady visits to Lynchburg.

Grandma was such a stereotypical awesome loved-us-completely grandma- we got ice cream for breakfast, played board games and puzzles in her back den, watched all the cartoons we wanted, and couldn’t wait for Eccles traditions when we gathered at her house. Whacking croquet balls through crooked wickets and lumpy roots. Burrowing tunnels through the dirt pile. Eating off paper plates on the iron furniture on the patio. Sitting on Marie’s old lime green stool by the mirror in the upstairs. Taking turns clicking on the type-writer. I can remember the solidness of being snuggled up to Grandma, who smelled distinctly like orange juice in the mornings, to read The Ant and the Elephant. She was practical and wise, but would break into laughter easily around us, leaning back and holding her knees when something cracked her up. She had a midwestern accent so pronounced Jordan’s name “Jar-den” and said “Good mar-ning.” Grandma’s visits to Lynchburg were sweet and calm when her little honda pulled in, usually involving walks outside and her going to our games and seeing what Dad was up to at LC.

We had a year to prepare for when she died. She had cancer, and went out on her own terms, with no fuss and with grace and dignity. We got to sit in her house after, tell our memories with aunts, uncles, cousins, and more. It felt very peaceful at the time, but even 7+ years later, it still hits me. I miss her calls. I miss her letters, her cursive scrawl on the envelope and a random article we might like clipped and folded up inside. I miss the way she gave hugs, and how much she supported us. I wish she could meet all my babies; I wish I could tell her things, sharing our world as we did for so long. It still hurts to miss her. Sometimes I’m still surprised that she’s gone, wondering how that can be so many years later.

Papa and Jean both died within 6 months of each other this past year, and perhaps that has been what has made the feels hit even harder.

Papa held magic for us. Whether it was the penny trick or his candy counter or the poems on our birthdays, he brought a special joy. He, too, lived in the same house where we’d stay every few trips when we were growing up – tiny twin beds and a chair bed in our room. Every morning we woke up, we’d knock on the wall to his bedroom, and he’d holler “Come on in here!” and we’d run and jump into his bed to watch Saturday morning cartoons to our heart’s delight. He had very original orange shag carpet upstairs and a living room we never went into. It was always the wood-paneled den – the same couch, same chairs, same brown leather stools, and nut cracker on the coffee table and boring golf on in the background. Papa loved sports, and loved cheering us on, but really, no matter what we were into, he was cheering us on. He’d be waiting at his storm door when we pulled up, grass perfect, collar shirt and khakis, Treper by his side, Oldsmobile in the driveway.

He told us Little Rupert Stories at night, and drew pictures on our back until we giggled so hard and squirmed so much he’d move on to the next. He laughed a lot, Papa did. He loved the heritage of the farmhouse, and treasured how much his great-grandbabies loved growing up playing in the same yard he grew up in. He started getting more and more forgetful, had a harder time talking and taking care of himself. But the last time I saw him, he was in an old metal and fabric fold out chair outside his garage, telling us to look at that beautiful “Carolina blue” sky.

He died on Christmas Eve, and we went to his house after the holidays, on New Years Eve to see some of the family. I was shocked at how hard being in his house hit me. Just seeing it, being in the den without him there on the couch, seeing all the same things as they’d always been had me in constant rolling tears. Folks were carrying on normal conversations around me, but all I could think of was how much I missed him already. I cried the entire time; my chest hurt.

And then in May, Jean moved on. 

Jean was a different type of grandmother. For starters, we always called her by her first name because she “wasn’t old enough to be a grandma.” She never seemed old; she was lively, spunky, full of sass. Her house was right by the bay, so we stayed there constantly in childhood, teenage years, and as grown ups. Nearly all of my friends and ex-boyfriends have stayed at Jean’s house. Sheaff spent many a weekend there when we first dated, married, and had Adalyn. Her house was alive with her spirit – yellow and golds everywhere. Full gardens bursting with color. Beachy stuff – fish, herons, dunes. She grew up on the Currituck Sound and carried that culture of sand and water and sun with her, always. She was fiercely independent, but to us, she was just plain ole fun. I used to love to try on her shelves and shelves on high heels and get my make up done at her counter. It didn’t feel like Christmas until Jean arrived the week of, in a bluster of stress and “you won’t believe the week I’ve had” venting and gorgeously wrapped gifts from cool places like The Gap or Surf Shops. She always told us exactly what she was thinking, and we never doubted how darn proud she was at every single graduation or wedding or baby or house or any milestone we hit. She was there, grinning for us. When we were kids and then when we had kids, she was always on the ground playing with us. Looking back at pictures of mom when she was a baby, I can see how little ones gave her this sparkle and grin.

End-of-life was a complicated journey, because everything Jean did was complicated, bless her. Dementia is …well, it’s rough, and it means that you grieve for the person even while they are still there –but slowly so you almost don’t realize it’s happening. And then when they pass on, it’s like suddenly you remember the person they were all those years, and it all hits again.

I was the last person who saw Jean before she died. Mom and Dad had just been to visit her, and had some really special, beautiful moments of love and peace and beauty. We thought we had a few weeks, and I wanted to see her just in case. So I drove to Virginia Beach last minute to love on her. Once she settled (because she was *always* moving) I crawled in bed beside her and just lay, holding her hand and talking. The girls love to do pretend make-up before bed at home, so I did her ‘pretend make up’ after all the years she did mine before dances and for holidays and for fun. I told her it was okay. I told her how grateful that she was ours. I told her we loved her. And she died at 2am that night in her sleep. It was peaceful. It wasn’t prolonged. It was good that she wasn’t suffering.

But god, it hurt.

Just because something is natural doesn’t mean our grief isn’t just as jagged and painful or real.

All of this is obvious, but it didn’t feel obvious to me when my grandparents passed.

When Abram died, the world kind of stopped and took a bit to recalibrate.

When an older generation dies, the world keeps turning, and I was surprised at how much it didn’t feel right. I remember sitting on the curb watching the kids scooter around our driveway two days after Jean passed thinking how different everything felt. I knew her dying was natural and peaceful and okay, but it didn’t feel that way.  

A friend of mine lost her sweet toddler last year and recently posted a picture of her holding him, simply saying in the caption: “I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.” Those words. That’s exactly what I felt in the days following my last grandparent dying. Maybe it was the culmination of all the love I had for these grandparents I’d loved my whole life, and just feeling a hole where they’d been forever. Life couldn’t stop. But I needed some moments. I still do.

To think about them. To remember them.

To grieve for their presence. To appreciate them. To miss them.

I freaking love the movie Coco, and the Mexican/Hispanic tradition of honoring loved ones who have died. The idea that we can have some sort of alter – maybe physically, maybe within us, where their faces still smile at us, where we can still share with them. The tradition of marigolds connecting us, a bridge from one world to the next. The knowledge that a spirit lives on in memory, and can walk amongst us when we take intentional time to feel them with us.

It’s healing to think… how is their spirit with me? How can I honor them? What sits at my alter to remember the lessons they gave, the joy they brought?

I told Jean that last day that when she saw Abram, to snuggle him extra tight for me, to cover him in kisses. And I often think of each grandparent holding him in another realm, passing him around, laughing like they would earth-side. I’m not sure what it looks like, honestly, but I know they’re all there. Most days, that feels incredibly peaceful.

And some days, it’s okay to do like my friend, and simply say,

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

holding Jean's hand before she died ❤ tight grip. she would have been so annoyed at my blue nail polish.