My Father’s Mother

The second time I lost my dad.

“I love you,” my grandmother said to me on her deathbed.

A list of the possible answers that went through my head:

• OK.
• Thanks (?).
• I love you, too.

“Oh, grandma,” I managed as I ran my fingers over her bruised forearm, her dried up veins. It occurred to me I’d never really touched her, just the few mandatory kisses on the cheek, or the times I’d offer my arm so she could get in the car. Her skin was soft, cold, and so thin it scared me it would rip and cease to contain her. My answer seemed good enough for her, but when I looked into her eyes I really wanted to cry. This goodbye felt a lot crueler than I anticipated, and it didn’t really have something to do with my grandmother.

My sister used to joke that, up until she was about 15, my grandmother didn’t really know our name. She’d refer to us as “girl,” or “you”. My dad comforted us by accepting she had never been very warm towards him either. “She just wasn’t a children’s person.” That could be because she basically raised her 5 siblings when she was just 12 years old, or that even though she was an extraordinary chemist and was accepted into the Sorbonne, my great-grandfather did not support her career so she married my grandfather instead, but the truth was my other two cousins were favored by being called by their own names, receiving birthday and Christmas presents.

It became evident she just didn’t like us, specifically. We never understood why she was so selective in her love, but neither my dad nor us ever made the cut.

While her lack of grandmotherly tenderness had no relevance in my life, the indifference she showed towards my dad’s gifts, his visits, his love, truly made my blood boil. So we pushed her away, little by little, not sending invites to birthday parties or graduation ceremonies, until she merely became my father’s mother.

In August 2014, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lymphatic cancer. I don’t remember how his mother took the news, but one day she knit him a hat and a scarf, and that was a first. She was nicer to us when we visited. Did she feel guilt? Would this bring them closer together at last? The possibilities gave us hope… only to be let down when it all went back to its old ways. The most support and affection she displayed throughout his illness relied on that hat and scarf.

Fast-forward to 2018, his last days on earth, when the palliative doctor started the treatment that would let my dad go without pain, we called my father’s mother to come say her goodbyes. It was the first time she ever visited him in the hospital. We left the two of them alone, and after 20 minutes my dad just texted my mom “please come rescue me”. My dad was dying. He had needed his mom to be there, and even then couldn’t bring any comfort to his son.

She left a while later, and we spent the rest of the night saying our goodbyes, singing, making him both forget and remember, thanking him and showing our love to him. The next day, he passed away.

A few things about my dad: he’d buy an extra burger or pie at McDonalds to feed stray dogs, had the unique talent of setting things on fire accidentally, he invented a little ritual to help me get rid of nightmares, he’d spent weeks thinking of a good gift for my mom and almost always failed, he bought my sister her first stethoscope when she decided she wanted to become a doctor (partly because he was proud of her, and partly because he loved Grey’s Anatomy). So, even though I cannot speak for my grandmother, I don’t think she could have had a valid reason for not liking my dad, let alone love him like my mom, sister, and I did.

She had been so absent throughout my whole life, I only assumed she’d be as absent after his death. But there was a little something I had not considered when this happened: genetics.

We went to have lunch with her on her birthday “because that’s something my dad would have done,” and she raised my dad from the dead with her laughter: the clear squinting eyes, thin lips and small mouth, the same hand gestures with those pale long fingers. To this day, my family is dark humor royalty, and my dad is the undefeated king; when he passed, accepting the fact that I’d never get to share a joke with him and hear his laughter was enough to make me spiral. Relieving his joy through her made me feel closer to him than I had in months.

And then, slowly, the crueler consequences of old age washed over her body: weaker bones, failing eyesight, forgetfulness. All grandmothers pass away eventually, and I thought I’d make peace with it quickly. But after seeing so much of my dad in her, a very unexpected surge of compassion surged in me. I resisted it because this newfound empathy for her felt like I was betraying my dad, and even though a big part of me will always be furious towards her, I couldn’t bring myself to hate her anymore. In the same way it happened with her laughter, I could not unsee my dad’s pain in hers, relieving his chemotherapies, the side effects, his regrets, and goodbyes.

So when I saw her in the hospital bed, and she said she loved us, the only thing I really did want to ask her was “Why now? Why not when my dad was in the same position as you are now, when he needed the same thing you want now: the reassurance that you are loved?”

But I was surrounded by the same beeping monitors, the tasteless meals wrapped in plastic, the bracelet with their blood type, the pseudo-robe that barely covered her body in the bed. And I sat next to her, my elbows in the mattress, holding her hand, just like I had done 3 years before for my dad. It was seeing my dad in her eyes once again in this déjà vu that made me give in and say “I love you, too.”

Her smile was the same as my dad’s, and it made me feel like I was saying goodbye to my dad again. How many times a person dies before you lose them forever.

I don’t think I have forgiven her for the pain she caused my dad, but I love my dad so much that I will forever hold dear in my heart any extension of his love. In the end, much of what I loved about my dad had to come from her. She was my father’s mother, after all.