My mother died on September 19, 1985. She was just sixty years old - the oldest daughter, the second oldest child of four children (three daughters and one son) born to Josephine K. (Gramma Jo to me)
Gramma Jo was eighty-four years old when my mother died - and in excellent health. She died in October, 1986 from a heart attack - just about a year after my mother died.
I spoke with my grandmother a lot during that year after my mother's death. I never heard her cry. I knew intellectually that losing a child (no matter how old) had to be the worst pain you could feel, but I also knew that I couldn't really understand how she felt - didn't want to, actually. It was far too frightening to imagine.
I know she must have cried - that her heart was broken. I hate it that she cried alone. I wish we hadn't lived 300 miles apart. I wish I could have been there for her - face to face - instead of the inadequate support I was able to provide from so far away.
Gram came to see my mother in the hospital before she died. I am in retrospective awe at the strength and courage it took to make that trip. I know that because of who she was, there was no choice about making the trip. She had to come - no matter how hard.
She told me things that day that she had previously never said out loud. I understand now why she had to say them - why she had to release them - why she couldn't carry them any more.
One of the things she told me was that she hated my father (justifiably, by the way) - the only person in her entire life that she hated. She didn't want to hate him. She asked me to pray for God to take away the hate. Imagine. Just imagine - her pain - her strength - her innate kindness and goodness.
She watched my mother's depression and unhappiness for years. My father was never physically abusive, but he was unkind - and at times, cruel. He made my mother's life (and mine) miserable for as long as I can remember.
How many times did my grandmother cry for my mother's pain over all those years?
My mother had a massive stroke (a calculated suicide attempt gone horribly wrong, I believe) and became paralyzed on one side - and at the mercy of my father for her every need. (I promise you - that's not a position in which you would ever want to find yourself.) She was in and out of the hospital in crisis for almost a year before she died.
What was it like for my grandmother to be 300 miles away - and know that her child was dying and in trouble?
Gramma Jo was eighty-four years old when my mother died - and in excellent health. She died in October, 1986 from a heart attack - just about a year after my mother died.
I believe she died of a broken heart. I've heard that said several times in my life - and I always thought it was a ridiculous thing to say.
I don't think so any more.
Gramma Jo was eighty-four years old when my mother died - and in excellent health. She died in October, 1986 from a heart attack - just about a year after my mother died.
I spoke with my grandmother a lot during that year after my mother's death. I never heard her cry. I knew intellectually that losing a child (no matter how old) had to be the worst pain you could feel, but I also knew that I couldn't really understand how she felt - didn't want to, actually. It was far too frightening to imagine.
I know she must have cried - that her heart was broken. I hate it that she cried alone. I wish we hadn't lived 300 miles apart. I wish I could have been there for her - face to face - instead of the inadequate support I was able to provide from so far away.
Gram came to see my mother in the hospital before she died. I am in retrospective awe at the strength and courage it took to make that trip. I know that because of who she was, there was no choice about making the trip. She had to come - no matter how hard.
She told me things that day that she had previously never said out loud. I understand now why she had to say them - why she had to release them - why she couldn't carry them any more.
One of the things she told me was that she hated my father (justifiably, by the way) - the only person in her entire life that she hated. She didn't want to hate him. She asked me to pray for God to take away the hate. Imagine. Just imagine - her pain - her strength - her innate kindness and goodness.
She watched my mother's depression and unhappiness for years. My father was never physically abusive, but he was unkind - and at times, cruel. He made my mother's life (and mine) miserable for as long as I can remember.
How many times did my grandmother cry for my mother's pain over all those years?
My mother had a massive stroke (a calculated suicide attempt gone horribly wrong, I believe) and became paralyzed on one side - and at the mercy of my father for her every need. (I promise you - that's not a position in which you would ever want to find yourself.) She was in and out of the hospital in crisis for almost a year before she died.
What was it like for my grandmother to be 300 miles away - and know that her child was dying and in trouble?
Gramma Jo was eighty-four years old when my mother died - and in excellent health. She died in October, 1986 from a heart attack - just about a year after my mother died.
I believe she died of a broken heart. I've heard that said several times in my life - and I always thought it was a ridiculous thing to say.
I don't think so any more.
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