by Gwen Morrison
My daughter has moved back home and is now living in what we have always called “Grandma’s Room.” In the room that we knew, when looking at this house, would be perfect for Dave’s mother who stayed with us here in Atlanta during the winter months.
I hadn’t spent much time in that room since Marrion passed away, nearly a year ago. When I walk into the room now to see my daughter I feel an overwhelming sense of astonishment because her absence is still so incomprehensible. It hits me like a brick wall. Tissue boxes and Merle Norman face cream are still tucked away under the sink, just like they always were. And I tell Robyn to leave them there. It’s where they belong.
And I feel the way I’ve felt for almost a year now: I have one foot in the present and one foot in the past.
It seems impossible that she’s not here.
Loss is big and vast and incomprehensible. Loss is also tiny and close and very real. It’s knowing you’ll never hear her voice again. Never see them lounging on the couch in new pajamas. Someday you have to enter the room and empty their closet, look under their bed, give away their eyeglasses and paperbacks. Loss is not knowing what to do with the prescription bottles that line the dresser, the face cream and their driver’s license, and the new blouse with the price tag still on it.
And loss is not knowing what you’ll do when the next person dies.
Loss is death, but it’s also life. It makes you want to grab on and not let go. It’s a reminder that it can change. And that it changes everything.
You can read more of Gwen’s writing by visiting her blog – a life less ordinary.
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11 Responses to Grandma’s Room
It seems impossible that she’s not here.
What a lovely piece Gwen. I remember picking up the phone to call my my former MIL well up to a year or more after she died. That moment of reality when I would think “what am I doing, she’s not there to answer” would bring that range of emotions right back in flash. I had lost other friends and family before her death, but for some reason it never seemed like she should be really gone.
Having lost my husband and mother within 18 months of each other, I know just how Gwen feels. I remember being at my husbands wake and an old friend came that we hadn’t seen in years. The first thing that popped into my head was I can’t wait to tell my husband who came. The reality was I would never be able to tell him the little and big things that was happening in my life again hit me with surprise. It was just a few days after his death but already my life and experiences were going to be without him.
Beautiful post. It is so great that you had such a great relationship with your mother in law.
Sage, I imagine you had quite a few of those moments when you said “I can’t wait to tell…” Does that ever really stop?
Our family suffered a loss last year and this sentence is pretty accurate:
It’s a reminder that it can change. And that it changes everything.
I lost my Mom and Dad only 15 mos. apart, 5 yrs. ago and I STILL cannot believe they are no longer on planet earth!! I am SO happy that I KNOW that I will see them again someday–that is what keeps me from bawling my eyes out every day. Some days I still DO cry–I miss them very much. I still have items of theirs that I will never get rid of, although they aren’t as comforting to me as they once were. It’s just STUFF.
Mom of KT, I lost my Dad 19 years ago and I still have the ache in my heart. As I grew in life, I wanted him to see what a proud daughter I was for him raising his family. Just the little things over a cup of coffee, (I can still see him dip his cookies in it). I have a few things also, it’s stuff but it was his and I cherish those things today more than ever.
I keep my husbands wallet in my jewelry box..it still has the money in it from the last time he used it. I also keep my mothers purse in my bedroom, I will occasionally open it and I can smell her perfume. It was 1 year ago that I lost my mother and almost 3 years since my husband passed away. My son is to be married in 3 weeks and they are on my mind a lot right now.
I have a lot of thoughts on this. Probably enough for more than one post.
It is so surreal dealing with “the stuff.” I am usually not very sentimental about stuff. I am not the most organized person, so sometimes it is easier to toss than to keep. I dread being considered for a future episode of “Hoarders”. I have gotten rid of things I might some day wish I had kept.
It was a different experience dealing with my mom’s death and what she left behind. Coming into her home and deciding what to keep, what to store, and what should go was emotionally draining, yet I knew it was an experience I might not have again and I should treat it with the respect it deserved.
Little things were the hardest to let go off – her checkbook (with her perfect penmanship that I did NOT inherit), a cardigan she used to wear all the time, and her contact lens case (she needed those contact lenses to see) were things that held more attachment and emotion than I expected.
It gets easier in time, but I know all of us who have experienced deep loss are forever changed….
It’s definitely the little things for me that bring home the incomprehensibility of the loss – seeing my mom’s handwriting, hearing her voice preserved on an answering machine message (a message I was fanatical about not erasing, but would become hysterical about accidently hearing when I was going through messages), remembering the dishes we used to make together (enchildas, spaghetti).
I think you learn quickly that it’s not something to be “gotten over” – because that’s not possible – but just to be lived with as best one can. I miss her every day.
I just lost my Grandma a few weeks ago and I can tell you that I definitely relate to what you are saying. For the first few nights, I slept with the blanket that she had with her at the hospital and to her dying day. I just wanted to grasp her. To hold her. I knew I couldn’t so this was the next best thing.
It’s amazing to me how “things” become so symbolic. Some things were so close to her that we buried them with her. We couldn’t imagine her not having them.
I have a ring that she wore. Her birthstone was Sapphire and so is mine. It’s a constant reminder of our connection and makes me think of her. I’ll always cherish simple things like that.
Erin@IW…I have a ring that she wore. Her birthstone was Sapphire and so is mine. It’s a constant reminder of our connection and makes me think of her. I’ll always cherish simple things like that.
The simple things are what really mean the most, aren’t they?
I am so glad you have something that also reminds you of a special connection you have.
You and your family remain in my thoughts and prayers.
KarenW,
So sorry to hear that. Email is a crappy way. I found out about the death of a close family friend via Facebook. Also crappy.