A Reflection On Grief

By Christie Maly

For my Grandmother: Theresa Maliyil

Can you grieve someone without knowing them?

I was confronted by this question when I lost my grandmother last spring. My grandmother and I have been separated by barriers all my life, both geographic and linguistic. When I was with her, I could only understand the physical expressions of love she offered: her warm hugs and her infectious smile. Her life story was communicated to me through my dad, who had a better sense of the life she lived before her dementia began. He knew her in the years they lived together before he started boarding school, and he could communicate in their native language, Malayalam.

When my grandmother lost track of reality, I did not understand what was happening as a child. I loved her, but I also struggled to be around her. Her mood was prone to changing, and our communication became limited to “nods of the head” and “hand-squeezes”. I was unsure of my role in this “conversation”. My parents, who could speak Malayalam and remind her of old memories, seemed like much better company for my grandmother. I was satisfied with limiting my time with her, lounging around reading in my room or hanging out with my cousins, who spoke English. 

However, when my paternal grandfather passed away 2 years ago, it struck me that as I aged so too did my loved ones. I was determined that at least with my grandmother, I would have another chance to be there for in-person, and offer my love to her. At one point, she was a housewife raising 6 children who ensured that food was on the table and kids were going to school — always doing daily rosaries with the belief God was with her. I wanted to have this image of her in my mind when I saw her the next time: saying goodbye on my terms. 

When I heard my grandmother was in the hospital in May with COVID-19, I was not concerned. My grandmother had been in and out of hospitals over the past few years; there was no reason to think that this hospital trip would be her last one. For one week, my dad made urgent calls to India sitting at the dinner table and assisting his family and ocean away. My uncle arrived at our house, ready to leave from San Francisco to fly to India, and my father weighed whether he too should make the journey. However, the next day, there was good news. The doctors reported that the symptoms were improving and the mood in my house shiften from worry to cautious optimism. My father and uncle’s discussions evolved from concern about her condition to logistical planning for my grandmother’s care once the hospital discharged her. 

The night after my uncle left for India, I emerged from my room — having studied hours for my upcoming Stat 88 final — to find my parents kneeling in their room with their hands clasped on the bed, as if in prayer. My mom’s eyes were tinged red, and my dad stared at the wall. I asked them “is everything alright”, and my mother spoke slowly saying my grandmother had “pneumonia”. I looked at her and said matter-of-factly “Well that’s ok, she can recover,” and then I walked downstairs thinking my mom was being dramatic. However, as soon as I sat down on the couch, my mom looked at me from the stairs, enunciating “She’s gone … she died.”  COVID-19 weakened my grandmother's lungs and pneumonia finished the virus’s job. I went back upstairs to my dad to tell him how sorry I was, and then I found myself retreating to my room to cry. I sobbed till my eyes tinged red, and was frantically calling my brother, wailing “She’s dead.” I was devastated knowing that the next time I saw her, she would be in her grave. 

After a day of crying, I was confused as to why I reacted so strongly. My father, who had just lost his mother, did not sob. Nor did my mother and brother. I felt like a child — unable to remain stoic in the face of the same grief that I observed in all the adults in my life. I felt I was unjustified, having only spent a cumulative sum of 1 year with her throughout my lifetime — paling in comparison to the years my father and mother had known her. I soon realized that I cried more for my loss than the loss of my grandmother. My grief was a selfish one  — focused on my missed opportunity to reconnect with her. However, I also thought that my response to grief was no less strange than someone grieving the loss of their favorite celebrity. Individuals do not always grieve for the people they know, rather they grieve for the time cut short, broken promises, constrained dreams, and insecure legacies. Grief is the gift the living give to themselves to make peace with the unknown situation that lies ahead. I believe that’s what I did for myself when I lost my grandmother. 

Her funeral was three days later, and our family sat together on the couch to watch it on Zoom. I watched my relatives in India chant prayers over my grandmother’s lifeless body, and a few hours later, a priest appeared on the screen praying over a small box. I was confused at the size of the casket, until my father explained that she had been cremated, as per COVID-19 policies in India. I was a bit shocked and saddened — in Indian Catholic traditions, the dead are buried and cremation is avoided (it’s seen as a ritual for Hindu practitioners). I wasn’t sure if she would have liked that, but as I watched her box get lowered into the same tomb where my grandfather rested, I realized it didn’t matter. She was gone, and no specific burial procedure would ease the aching pain — the grief — lingering in my heart.