The Bad Anniversary
The anniversary of my Grandmother's death is on the 18th. It's been six years. If you had asked me before her passing if I could imagine a world without her in it for even one minute, I would have said it was impossible. But here I am, surviving after six whole years, and it still hurts.
Tears are closer to the surface around this time of year. Depression is harder to fend off. And I always think of Heather, whose own "bad anniversary" is this time of year, too. She lost her mom around the same time I lost Grandma. Her friendship and commiseration were a great comfort to me during the awful first months after Grandma's passing, and I hope Heather can say the same about my friendship.
Thinking about Grandma also starts up the homesickness, since my memories of Maine are part and parcel with my memories of Grandma. I went to Maine twice this year. I didn't visit her grave either time. I think I was subconsciously avoiding it. I feel like a bad granddaughter. But I think about her all of the time, so is that an equal tribute to placing flowers on her place of rest? I don't know.
I had a conversation with my uncle when Calvin and I were home in May. I think he was troubled that I miss my grandmother much more than I miss my mother. I think it upset him that my grandmother's death effected me in a much more profound way, than did the death of my mother. His relationship with my mother was an extremely close one. I think he understands intellectually, but not emotionally, that I didn't really bond with my mother the way I did with my grandmother. I hardly saw my mother when I was small - she died when I was 8, and my early childhood memories more involve other people taking care of me than my mother. My mother worked nights and slept days, and was often in the hospital. My grandmother, my aunt, and my sister all took turns taking care of me.
Then, after my mother passed away, I went to live with my grandmother. It was an easy transition, given how much time I already spent with her. My real childhood happened at Grandma's, with Grandma. So it's no wonder that her house is "home" to me, rather than the house I lived in with my mother. It's no wonder her memory is the one I conjure when I'm craving a mother figure.
Obviously, I still feel guilty. Guilt and death are often hand-in-hand, I've found. I didn't do enough, I didn't say enough, I didn't show enough. Even after six years, it eats at me. And, I suppose, even after twenty-five.
Tears are closer to the surface around this time of year. Depression is harder to fend off. And I always think of Heather, whose own "bad anniversary" is this time of year, too. She lost her mom around the same time I lost Grandma. Her friendship and commiseration were a great comfort to me during the awful first months after Grandma's passing, and I hope Heather can say the same about my friendship.
Thinking about Grandma also starts up the homesickness, since my memories of Maine are part and parcel with my memories of Grandma. I went to Maine twice this year. I didn't visit her grave either time. I think I was subconsciously avoiding it. I feel like a bad granddaughter. But I think about her all of the time, so is that an equal tribute to placing flowers on her place of rest? I don't know.
I had a conversation with my uncle when Calvin and I were home in May. I think he was troubled that I miss my grandmother much more than I miss my mother. I think it upset him that my grandmother's death effected me in a much more profound way, than did the death of my mother. His relationship with my mother was an extremely close one. I think he understands intellectually, but not emotionally, that I didn't really bond with my mother the way I did with my grandmother. I hardly saw my mother when I was small - she died when I was 8, and my early childhood memories more involve other people taking care of me than my mother. My mother worked nights and slept days, and was often in the hospital. My grandmother, my aunt, and my sister all took turns taking care of me.
Then, after my mother passed away, I went to live with my grandmother. It was an easy transition, given how much time I already spent with her. My real childhood happened at Grandma's, with Grandma. So it's no wonder that her house is "home" to me, rather than the house I lived in with my mother. It's no wonder her memory is the one I conjure when I'm craving a mother figure.
Obviously, I still feel guilty. Guilt and death are often hand-in-hand, I've found. I didn't do enough, I didn't say enough, I didn't show enough. Even after six years, it eats at me. And, I suppose, even after twenty-five.
Laura: It's obvious to anyone who reads you for a little while how much you loved your grandmother (and still do). The fact that you think about her often and make the same meals she used to make, etc would probably mean more to her than you visiting a gravesite. As for you missing her more than your mother, I also think that we tend to be far more resilient when we are children than when we are adults. Plus, your grandmother was in your life a lot longer. The more memories you have of someone, the more you miss them when they're gone.
Posted by
Amanda |
12:05 PM
I love you sweetie. I know you know that, but somet things are worth repeating.
Posted by
Heather |
4:31 PM