Grief Is Like That
Grief Is Like That
The girl, three chairs down from me, is giggling. I’m getting a pedicure in La Crosse, something I’ve treated myself to regularly since having both hips replaced years ago.
The male technician lifts the girl's foot and uses a buff pad on the sole, a ticklish area. Her giggling takes me back to my granddaughter Helena’s birthdays when I’d ask what she wanted to do, and she’d choose a pedicure.
We’d sit side by side, our bodies vibrating in the massage chairs. When it was time for the buffing, Helena would pull her foot back and shake her head, her hand covering her mouth—a habit she’d developed while she had braces. Her laughter was infectious as she scrambled to communicate, “Stop!”
This image of Helena stays with me while I do errands. I call my daughter and share it with her. Jessica responds, “Yes, she was so ticklish…” Then we’re both quiet, lost in our own sad thoughts.
Grief is like that. Memories are triggered by things you enjoyed doing together, how someone tosses back their hair, smells, foods, places you visited together, dates, and holiday traditions. I welcome the memories, although they make the loss of Helena more incomprehensible, knowing I won’t hear her laugh again, or hear her scold us for our uncontrollable cackling during a New Year’s game of Spoons.
Recently there was a terrible car accident in town. It was triggering, horrifying. The scene from the car crash that killed Helena came roaring back like a movie on automatic rerun. Like a child trying to get water out of my ear at the local swimming pool, I stood and jumped on one foot, trying to expel the image of the terrifying end of my granddaughter’s life.
Talking with Jessica and with friends who’ve experienced the traumatic and unexpected deaths of their children, I begin to see patterns. Days they consider “good” are welcomed respites from the awful weeks when even getting out of bed is difficult. One constant, I’ve learned, is that there’s nothing linear about mourning your loved ones. Another is that no one grieves the same way. Jessica’s tears could fill the Kickapoo River, but not everyone cries.
Helena enjoyed fast things. She loved riding on the back of her dad’s Triumph motorcycle. Her love of speed resulted in an early traffic ticket when she was driving her brother's car because he was tired. Her right foot grew heavy as she listened to music with the road stretching out ahead and Ethan snoozing in the passenger seat.
Helena loved go-karting, another pick for her special birthday trips. She would press the pedal down, her hair blowing back and a grin spreading across her face. I can picture her hugging the corners, leaning in to get that extra edge,
After Helena’s death, Ethan and Jessica pored through family pictures and videos, wanting to secure their memories. One of my favorite video clips was taken by Jessica not long before Helena’s death, while Helena was being treated at Children’s Hospital for complications from cystic fibrosis. With the door to her room closed and the curtain drawn, Helena pushes the IV pole and rocks out to music only she can hear in earbuds. As she’s bopping around, ponytail swinging back and forth, blue hospital gown flapping, the door suddenly opens and a nurse hands her something. As Helena takes it, she turns toward her mom, cheeks flushed with a huge “You caught me!” grin.
Another favorite memory was when Helena stayed here without her parents or Ethan. She gathered eggs, gave the donkeys apples, snoozed on the porch with cats on her lap, and enjoyed s’mores over the fire. But the part that always makes me laugh was when she was petting Luna and Peepers, the baby goats, and they got out of the pen. She yelled, “Grandma, the goats are out!” and I said, “Get them back in.” She managed to corral Peepers but couldn’t get Luna to turn around. I said, “Just pick her up, Helena.” She looked at me like I was crazy as she replied in horror, “I’m not picking up a goat!”
Today, as the winter sun warms my office, I’m staring at a photo of Helena and my dog Ruben, taken during Helena’s last visit to my house.
Quickly my mind goes to my last memory of her. It was the day after Ethan’s wedding. Dane and I had slept in Helena’s bedroom while she slept on an inflatable bed in her brother’s room. She was still asleep when Dane and I were ready to drive home. I woke her and she reached up to give me a sleepy hug, saying, “Love you.”
Hugging her back, I said, “Love you, too.”
I’d like to try to keep this image on an automatic loop that I could pull out when the darker ones become too strong.