Wednesday October 6th 1999. I don't remember much about that day.Thatis to
say that I don't remember much about what happened atschool thatday. It was
probably like any other school day, full of its' ownlittletriumphs and defeats,
but I don't remember it now. What I dorememberis walking home that day. I don't
think that I was particularlyhappyor sad. I was just walking home. When I got to
my house I tookout mykeys and opened the door, and as the door swung open, I saw
myfather.Now, my father isn't an overly emotional man but he isn't rigidand
Ihave seen him cry before when he was under a lot of stress so
Iwasn'texceptionally surprised when I saw that his eyes were red andpuffy.
Ithought that maybe my parents had gotten into another fight. ButthenI saw my
mother. I have a bad visual memory so I don't rememberwhat mymother's face
looked like but it literally filled my soul withterror.At the sight of my
mother's face my eyes filled with tears. "Mom, what's wrong?" I implored.
"What is wrong, Mother?" My mother took me into her arms. "This morning
Grandma was hitby a car.She perished" The world stopped.I dropped my
backpack on the floor. My fathertookoff my coat. I went into the living room and
sat down on the loveseat,clutching a pillow to my chest. I felt as if I had been
gutted,as ifsomeone had drained me of all energy. I sat listless, my eyesdry. I
kepttelling myself not to think because if I didn't think then thepain
wouldn'tbe real. If I didn't think then none of this would be real. As I
sat in my own daze my ears picked up information that I didnotwant, yet needed
to know. When my parents had come home therewere twomessages waiting on the
answering machine. One was from the localpoliceand one was from general
hospital. They were both concerning FiraMalstman.My mother expected the worst.
Maybe she had had a heart attack,brokeher leg. But nothing could have prepared
her for the truth. Mymom calledthe number that the hospital representative had
left. "Hello. I'm calling about Fira Malstman. Where is she?" sheasked.
"She's dead." Maybe the guy who answered the phone was an intern
who wasn'tused todealing with these situations. Maybe he had had a long day.
Maybehe wasjust plain annoyed; they had been trying to track us down
sinceearlythat morning. I don't know and I don't care. When I heard what
hesaidto my mother I could have murdered him with my bare hands. The next
thing that I remember is the frenzied search for mybrother.My 24-year-old
brother had just moved to a new job the day beforeandmy parents had no way of
contacting him. As my parentsfrantically calledand paged every person even
vaguely associated with my brother,one thoughtran through my head. Don't call
him. He doesn't need to know.Don't tellanyone. They don't have to know. No one
needs to feel like this. Finally they got his number by calling his
girlfriend's father'sfriend.They told him to drive straight home, but they
didn't tell himwhy. Thenmy other grandmother and her husband arrived. My
father's motherand Ihave never been close and I don't blame anyone for it;
that's thewaythings turned out. But as I saw her coming through the doorway,
Iwantedto hate her. I wanted to hate her for the fact that she was hereand
mygrandmother was gone. I wanted to hate here because she couldnever comeclose
to replacing what I had lost. But as I looked at her and asI sawher pain, my
anger melted away. After that moment I was lost. People came and they
went. Mybrother arrived.I vaguely remembered being given something to eat and
then laterbeingushered into bed. I fell into bed, letting sleep wipe
awayconciseness. The next day I went to school. My parents and I both
agreed thatthatwould be the best course of action. They didn't want me to
bealone inthe house and they were right. I tend to do extremely
unhealthythingswhen I'm alone and depressed. So I went to school. My
fatherdropped meoff that morning, going straight to my counselor to
"explainthings."That day wore my most conservative black dress and around me
headI worea black scarf. I wore because it was a symbol of my mourning,becauseit
went along with Jewish tradition, because it felt right, butmostlybecause it
helped to shield me from the outside world. In myfirst classof the morning I
forced myself to take notes with a shaky hand,and keptmy eyes glued to my paper.
In my next class, singing, I wasexcused. Isat for forty minutes in front of the
choir room listening to "AJubilantSong" and fighting the pain inside. As I was
walking to my nextclassmy French teacher pulled me aside. She had "just heard
the news."Andas she was holding me in her arms something within me broke.There
wasthis general sweetness about her, it reminded me oddly of mygrandma.And
everything that I had been holding back from the previousafternooncame out. I
have never cried so hard in my life. At that momentthe bellrang and the halls
filled with nameless, faceless students. And Iwalkedpast them, with tears
streaming down my cheeks. When the teacherfor mynext class saw what state I was
in, he excused me, as did therest ofmy teachers. For the rest of the day
I sat in the courtyard with my friends. That evening we all wentto
thesynagogue to have a private meeting with the rabbi. When I sawhim usheringus
in, I smiled. It wasn't much, and I'm the grief showed throughmy face,but I
regretted in immediately. It seemed somehow wrong. Iremember along time ago,
when my family was still back in Russia; mygrandmotherhad fallen on the icy
sidewalks and fractured her hip. As thefamily wasstanding around my
grandmother's bed, my father cracked a joke.We alllaughed. But afterwards I felt
guilty for doing it. My five-year-oldmind thought it was wrong to laugh while my
grandmother was in somuchpain. That's the way I felt after I smiled at my rabbi.
We wereusheredinto the rabbi's private office, a tall and stately room
withbookshelfup to the ceiling. We were seated in comfortable overstuffedleather
chairsand asked with the most tact possible what we remembered of
FiraMalstman.Out of my mother and father poured a story of selfless humanbeing
whohad led an extremely difficult life. And every single last wordof itwas true.
My grandmother lost her mother at the age of threemonths. She,a Jew, lived
through the holocaust. She lost her husband afteronly tenyears of marriage, and
was left to raise two small children byherself.And yet my grandmother was the
most giving doctor that anyone hadeverknown. After both my mother and my
father had spoken, the rabbi turnedto mybrother and asked him to speak. In the
15 years that I had knownmy olderbrother I had never seen him cry, until that
day. And I hope toneversee it again. Seeing my brother scared, lost and alone
was harderforme to bear than anything I had experienced up to that point.
Mybrotherhas always been, for me, a pillar of strength, support, guidanceand
wisdom.And seeing him break down was ... terribly painful. Then, finally,
the rabbi turned to me and asked me if I hadanythingto add. With tears
streaming down my face and my voice tremblinghorribly I said,"Yesterday, as I
was coming home from school, I realized that forthefirst time in my life I was
coming home to any empty house." Now that may not seem like much to some
people. But mygrandmother hasalways been there for me. Always. And now she's
gone. I canhonestly saythat the day of my grandmother's funeral was the worst
day of mylife.The emptiness, loneliness and hate filled me on that day like
noother.Standing in the funeral parlor loathing every one of thosehollow,
shallowpeople, I even hated myself. When they had opened up the roomwhere
thecasket lay I went to the back and leaned against a wall forsupport. Iwas
alone, so alone, and bitter. One by one people went up to thecasketto pay their
last respect, but I stayed where I was. Then mybrother,with his stiff sense of
decorum, told me that I must go and saygood-byeto my grandmother. I firmly told
him no. And then as he startedto physicallypull me toward the casket my body
began to shut down. I felt thatfamiliarrushing dizziness that comes every time
before I faint and Iswear toyou a minute more and I would have been down on the
ground. Theonly thingthat brought me back was the grip of my father's hand on my
arm.He toldmy brother to leave me alone. The funeral was horrible. For
threehoursI battled with the urge to scream or laugh hysterically. But nowI
realizethe ordeal had a purpose. The funeral forced me to face the paininsteadof
storing it inside me like I always do. And eventually I saidgood-byeto my
grandmother, in my own way. It has been almost all most four months since
the death of mygrandmother.I'm no longer bitter, though my mother still is. I'm
just very,very sad.And every time some mentions death or funerals I cringe. It
wasneverlike that before, but I guess that's what happens when someoneclose
toyou dies. |
