Death and Loss in the Time of a Pandemic

While this title appears to be redundant, I am referring here to what could be considered the collateral damage of death and loss during this strange time.  I don’t know anyone personally that has succumbed to Covid -19, and these troubling issues we face as a country I face as part of the cultural and racial majority, making me all the more aware of the relative comfort and security that my immediate family is afforded.  In spite of these mercies and privileges, I have been more personally touched by death and loss in these past few months than I have been in quite some time.  A beloved former teacher of mine has been diagnosed with Alzheimers, a dear friend fights a ravaging cancer that leaves her in debilitating pain day and night, and my last living grandparent passed away this past week.  My Maternal Grandmother lived to be 91 years old, and until recent months, enjoyed remarkably good health.  I am grateful for these facts, but in addition to mourning her death, I also mourn the fact that at the end of her life she was not able to be with her loved ones.  Grieving her loss has felt like grieving in a vacuum -- a new experience for me.  None of us got to say goodbye. So if you will indulge me, I would like to write something here to honor her memory.  

My Grandmother lived in many different places over the course of her life, but my memories of her reside in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.  Many of the memories are sensory; the smell of homemade strawberry jam and sourdough pancakes drifting out of the house, muggy Virginia summer air thick with the sound of cicadas, twinkling fireflies begging for us to catch and release them into the dusky twilight.  At least twice a year my family and I would take the eight hour car trip from our home in Buffalo and stay with my grandparents for a week or more at a time.  The turn onto the final road leading to their new-build ranch left us with a three mile stretch, every moment a countdown of anticipation.  When the car hit their driveway, gravel crunching underneath the tires, I knew what I would see next.  My Grandma would be waiting by the garage with her warm smile and welcoming presence.  She was the best kind of hostess -- one that prepared every comfort just for you, but also one that relished in your presence.  We felt at home there, but we also felt special.  We knew that delicious and thoughtful meals would be cooked for us, there would be fires in the fireplace, tractor rides would be on the schedule, as well as strawberry picking and river walks.  If it was the right time of year, we might even get a day at the Clark County Fair.  

In many ways my Grandmother was the poster child for aging.  She embraced what the Waldorf community would call “a lifetime love of learning.”  Well into her eighties she was enrolled in adult education courses at the local university, did her crossword puzzles religiously, and read voraciously.  My grandparents home in Virginia was one of the few I have visited that included a bonafide library.  The walls were bookshelves, floor to ceiling -- a sea of classics, westerns, and romance novels, punctuated by pieces from their prolific mug collection.  Perhaps all that reading and love of knowledge is what made my Grandmother such an excellent storyteller.  In my memory it is often my Grandfather that gets the spotlight for storytelling.  Like a character out of one of those many western novels, he was a man of few words, and a story from my Grandpa was like a treasure to be cherished.  But my Grandma had an uncanny knack for bringing memories back to life.  Her deep set gray-blue eyes would become distant and dreamy, and with astonishing detail and pitch perfect pacing, she could recall people and events from any stage of her past.  Her face would come alive when telling a story, and the memory of her wide, genuine smile, and slow but high-pitched laughter will be with me always.  

My family and I made the trip up to visit my Grandmother and Aunt Kathy last summer.  She was past the age of being able to travel long distances comfortably, and a visit from us was long overdue.  We spent a lovely day catching up and reminiscing, and then shared a meal together.  My husband had recently started a podcast, and had experienced the joy and connection that can be made when asking someone the questions that get to the heart of who they are.  It was his idea to ask her to share stories from her girlhood -- many of which I had never heard before.  As she took us back in time with her, we heard stories of the Great Depression, of sacrifice, and of the love of family.  When I think about this time we live in now with so much uncertainty and fear of what the future might hold, I am especially comforted by this memory.  It was clear from listening to my Grandmother speak of this time of scarcity in her life, that the love and values demonstrated to her and her siblings by their parents was far more impactful than a lack of material comforts or conveniences.  If this pandemic ushers in another great depression, but my own children grow up with the mental fortitude, moral values, and love of life that my Grandma had, then I can take heart that everything will be ok.