Meeting Grief and Its Affiliates

 A personal essay by Amanda Ferrin

"Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape." -C.S. Lewis

Screen door, then white door. Next the big square tiles, good for indoor hopscotch. Then the wooden bannister, opposite the closet door, and the hallway with the yellow bedroom. Then, finally, the kitchen. I’m giddy with excitement. There’s Grandma standing behind the counter, and there he is.

Grandpa.

He’s already sitting, waiting for me to take my rightful spot on his lap. The excitement is too much for my chubby little body. I shout his name and jump into his outstretched arms, rejoicing in his bigness, his solidness, his laughter. I don’t know yet that he is sick.

Mom and Dad catch up in time to see me fly into his arms, and they tell me to be careful. Or maybe it was gentle? Either way, I’m confused. I couldn’t hurt Grandpa, I’m too small, and he is so strong. “It’s ok, she’s fine,” Grandpa says. Little me settles into Grandpa’s arms, but I can’t forget my parents’ tone of voice. Adult me now realizes those are the only words I clearly remember hearing him say. Nobody else remembers this precious moment, this memory that is most likely my first. Perhaps this moment was the first my brain cared about enough to remember, because it was the first time I realized that despite his bigness, Grandpa was sick.

“We can’t ever get one. I couldn’t do it.” 

I looked over from the passenger seat, curious. “What do you mean? I thought you liked pets?” Bryant and I hadn’t been married that long, but we had been friends since 9th grade, and I had never sensed any sort of dislike of animals. 

“Oh, I love them. And that’s the problem. I know my little heart won’t be able to handle it when they die.” That was more consistent with the way I had seen him play with dogs before. Yet I was still troubled.

“But don’t you think the years of joy they bring would be worth it?” 

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. I know I will get so attached to them that my heart will break when they die.”

As we continued driving, I remembered Charlie, my cat who had been my best friend during my pre-tween and teenage years. He was a large, black and white Maine Coon, and he had the sweetest personality. He lived outdoors, so I would spend a good amount of time each day sitting and playing with him. Sometimes I still expect to see his little green eyes watching for me through my parents’ glass back door. 

He was very intelligent. Ashley, my cute little next door neighbor, absolutely adored Charlie, although she wasn’t quite old enough to understand that he did not appreciate her pulling on his tail. One day, when I was sitting on our back patio with Charlie, we heard Ashley’s voice calling out Charlie’s name, just around the corner. In an instant, Charlie dove for the grill, which had a long black cover that he slid under. It was the perfect hiding spot; even the bit of his tail that poked out blended in perfectly with the cover. 

“Hi, Amanda! Where’s Charlie?”

I pried my eyes away from the grill, trying to hide my shocked smile. “Hmm. Charlie? I don’t know, he’s probably out in the field playing.” Thank goodness she was only 5 and wouldn’t catch the irony in my voice.

“Oh. That’s ok. I’ll just come back later.”

“Yeah, try again later, I’m sure you can see him later.”

As she walked back to her own house, I fell over with laughter, and Charlie tentatively stuck his nose out. Once he was sure the threat of smothering adoration was gone, he came over and gently head-butted me until I sat up so he could sit on my lap. 

In the car, I smiled, remembering the feel of his gentle paws slowly kneading my legs, and the vibration of Charlie’s contentment. Hadn’t that memory alone provided me enough happiness to survive the grief of his death? I went through the catalogue of happy memories with Charlie in my mind. Surely it was all worth the pain of losing him. 

I remembered sobbing an angry prayer to God the day Charlie died. I was upset that God was taking him away. Didn’t He know? Charlie was the happiest part of every day! How could I have lived through junior high and high school without him? I don’t know, and I’ll never have to know, which was enough of a blessing to let me agree to live with just the happy memories and the funny stories.

“I think you could handle the grief. There’s so much love and happiness and joy that comes from a pet, I really think it would be worth it.” 

Bryant shook his head. “Maybe. But I just really don’t want to put myself through that. I’m content to just play with other people’s pets.”

I don’t know how quickly Grandpa’s sickness made him bed ridden. But I do know I was his favorite grandchild--officially, just the calmest--because I was the only one allowed to sit in bed with him. There was the dark purple comforter, the white sheets. My favorite blanket. The T.V. Football. DragonTales. Sunshine filtered through gauzy curtains. Wooden puzzles. Infinite contentment to simply sit in the comfort and calm of Grandpa’s arms rather than rough-house with my cousins. 

My mom told me she would frequently take me to his house for my naps. 

My aunt told me how he watched, mesmerized, as I figured out how to put a cap on a pen. 

My dad told me I really was Grandpa’s favorite. 

My last personal memory of him was at the viewing. Dad held me so I could see over the heads of family members and get a last look at Grandpa. There he was, in a white suit, eyes closed, surrounded by a brown casket that was surrounded by a brown room. Everything but Grandpa seemed to be brown. Dad told me to say bye-bye, and I sadly waved. The lid closed. I cried. 

I was only three, but I knew I would forever feel his loss. At that moment I made a conscious decision to always remember that last look at Grandpa. Grandpa is my earliest memory, my first inkling of what it is to love and to be loved so unconditionally. 

His absence shaped me. As one of the only kids in my elementary school class who did not have a grandparent attend Grandparent’s Day, I felt the injustice of his absence. Even though both my grandmothers were alive--one on a mission and one recovering from a surgery--it was the lack of a grandpa that I felt acutely aware of. Seven-year-old me prayed that God would let me know what it was like to have a grandfather. I just wanted to know that joy. 

A year or so after that, Grandma Geegee announced that she was going to marry Lyn, an old man with an impressively large backyard. At first, I was somewhat taken aback. I had asked Grandma if Lyn was her boyfriend, and she told me no. So why were they getting married now? 

My next thought was, God answered my prayer. I’ll have a grandpa now. 

It did not take very long for me to realize that I had been mistaken. Lyn was not my grandpa, and he did not have the energy or the time to truly connect with all 40 of my grandmother’s grandkids. My young mind slowly grasped the fact that it was Grandpa Murdock, not just the simple presence of a grandfather figure, that I missed, and that nobody ever could make up for the adventures his death stole from me. 

These bears are the last Christmas present from Grandpa

Strangely, that realization is what helped me finally understand and come to terms with my grief. At the time I could not have articulated it, but now I recognize that Lyn’s lackluster presence in my life made me treasure Grandpa Murdock’s bright, though sparse, memory even more. I became grateful for what little time I had with him, instead of wishing I’d had more. I learned to move on with my recollection and the stories people told about him. Going through that process at such an early stage in my life helped me manage the loss of my cat in high school. 

Does that mean gratitude is the key to overcoming grief? I don’t know. I certainly would never tell someone recently bereaved that they need to just be grateful for the time they did have with their lost one. That almost seems to reduce the importance of people to just their lived existence. The thought of having wonderful memories to be grateful for was not enough to convince my husband that getting a pet would be worth the price. And what about those who lose a child to miscarriage? Surely the grief felt for those unborn is just as strong as the grief for the born. That is a grief I hope I never feel. 

Yet I’m going to risk it anyways. 

Perhaps we think about grief the wrong way. I’ve always thought of it as something to move on from, or something to learn to live with and ignore. But when I think about Charlie or Grandpa Murdock, I don’t just find sadness. I don’t immediately try to shoo them from my brain. I let them come and linger. I smile. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I feel a strange wistfulness. At family dinners or in conversations with friends, frequently I voluntarily bring up Charlie and one of his funny anecdotes. 

I have not moved on from my grief, I have embraced it. 

Someone much better acquainted with grief might tell me that’s easy enough. I’ve only briefly met grief. Yes, I feel I have been deeply shaped by it, but a three-year-old can bounce back pretty quickly, and a cat isn’t the same thing as a spouse. One day I’ll probably meet a different kind of grief, one that leaves me gasping for air and unable to sleep. It might be more like the grief William Wordsworth knew when joy caused him to forget his loss, but the return of his memory 

“Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more.” 

I’m in no rush for that experience, but I still believe that grief is misrepresented. There are quotes galore about grief being the continuation of love, and while that’s true, I know that grief is more. If grief is the result of losing somebody, then it must include everything that you experience with that loss. Grief is something new, it’s a combination of love, sadness, laughter, longing, joy, tears, smiles, smiles through tears. It will be easier for me to welcome grief when I recognize it as one of the many facets of existence.