My grandparents were much beloved in my family. They met on a street in the Bronx in 1924. My grandfather was a seventeen year old student at Fordham; my grandmother was taking her infant brother for a walk. Instantly infatuated, she lied about her age, telling this college boy that she was sixteen when in fact she was thirteen. Thus began a very long courtship. They finally married when she was twenty-one—after she completed teacher’s college and he finished dental school at Columbia
I always remember my grandfather as a hopeless romantic. He loved my grandmother to distraction. Their relationship was a zero sum game; my grandfather approached each day as if he had not already proven his love the day before. He was driven to spontaneous bouts of generosity, occasionally coming home with jewelry in his pockets for no reason at all. My grandmother was reluctant to take him shopping because faced with a choice of dresses he would simply buy them all for her.
Their generosity was not reserved for each other. It applied to family, in-laws, friends of friends, new boyfriends or girlfriends. My father always called them his parents, even though they were his in-laws; they regarded him as their son. They welcomed my husband to the family as if he had always been their grandson. But although their hearts were big enough, it seemed, to embrace the world, my grandfather always made it clear that my grandmother rose above everyone else. To him there was simply no other woman in the world who was her equal.
Even as a child my grandparents inspired me. It was like living in a real life fairy tale. What little girl wouldn’t want to believe in true love and happily ever after? Yet as beautiful as it was to be an extra in their love story, so it was unbearably sad as the years took their toll. Late in her 70s my grandmother suffered an illness from which she never really recovered. Following sustained high fevers, her physical health improved but she began a steady decline that included the loss of her mental faculties. The doctors denied that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s, nonetheless it became more and more difficult for her to remain in the present day. She mistook me for my mother. She spoke as if expecting events to occur that happened decades earlier. Eventually, she was no longer able to function appropriately in public places, such as restaurants or the hair salon.
Putting her in a nursing home was tough love. My grandfather was no longer able to manage her around the clock; my mother was stripped bare negotiating a constant stream of home caregivers. It was a difficult adjustment for everyone. I believe my grandmother never spent a peaceful night in that place alone. My grandfather rushed each morning to her side where he stayed until they sent him home, depressed, at the end of the day. Such was their life for the next four years.
Not long after ‘celebrating’ their 61st anniversary, my grandfather, who had never been sick a day in his life, was rushed to the hospital. The doctors called it ‘congestive heart failure’ but we knew he was suffering from a broken heart. The daily visits to the love of his life were becoming too painful for him to bear and had no foreseeable end. He slipped away quietly, even as the doctors declared him out of danger.
The funeral was a couple of days later. My mother was exhausted. Not only had she managed all of the arrangements, but the trauma of the unexpected loss also triggered a delayed response to all that she had been carrying for years. She mentioned to me that she was considering not bringing my grandmother to the funeral. After all, she was mostly incoherent, rarely recognized the people around her, and could behave inappropriately in public. It would be very difficult to have to handle her on top of everything else.
I had a visceral reaction to my mother’s plan. “Mom, you must let her attend,” I implored. “This is her husband. It’s not your place to make that call. Everyone will understand no matter how she behaves. I think she will know on some level what is happening and needs the closure. Besides, what is she to think when he stops coming to see her at the nursing home?”
Against her better judgment, my mother relented. She went to the nursing home to explain to my grandmother about my grandfather’s passing and to get her dressed, then brought her over to her own home where everyone was assembling. Having arrived from out of town, I walked in with my newborn daughter. My grandmother took one look at me and smiled to my mother, “Look, Ellen is here with the new baby!” There was a hush across the room. I sat down and introduced my grandmother to my daughter, who was the third “only daughter of an only daughter”. I said, “This is Emily Rose.” She said, “Yes, I know; you named her for my sister Rose.” She took my baby in her arms and held her like the treasure that she is. Girls are rare in our family; I was the only granddaughter among her eight grandchildren. Emily was the fifth great grandchild yet only the first girl of her generation. My grandmother looked up at my mother, triumphant, “Look, Joan, we finally got our girl.”
When we arrived at the funeral home, my grandmother continued to amaze us with her lucidity. My mother coached her subtly through the mourners and well-wishers, gently prompting: “Mother, you remember Sid and Jeannette.” “You remember Harry and Pauline.” My grandmother snapped back indignantly, “Stop telling me who these people are! I’ve known them since well before you were born!” She approached the open casket where my grandfather laid at peace. Calmly and with purpose, she kissed him as you would a sleeping child, then said, “Good-bye, my love.”
At the cemetery, my grandmother said Kaddish and then scolded the hired hand who carelessly let the casket bobble as it lowered into the ground. We returned to my mother’s home to sit Shiva. From her place on the sofa my grandmother transformed, looking at the crowd of people through suddenly vacant eyes. Occasionally she would speak, but the contents were oddly disconnected from the time and place the rest of us inhabited. Back at the nursing home she was agitated and belligerent, running through the halls crying. But when the nurse asked her why she was so upset, she answered, “Today I buried my husband of sixty years. I’m entitled.”
That was the last time I saw my grandmother. She survived another couple of months until her birthday. On that day in March, as was tradition, her sons called from out of town to wish her a happy birthday. When she had heard from the last one she closed her eyes and went to sleep, never to wake again.
I have no doubt that my grandparents each were keeping the other alive. I like to believe that my grandfather willingly folded his hand in order to release my grandmother from her painful struggle. Without his daily visits, it was easier for her to let go, ending the suffering that had usurped her life. We were all baffled by the dignity of her presence at his funeral. She had clarity in those hours that she had not possessed in years. And the memory of her joy and recognition while holding my tiny daughter—just that once—is the most precious memory that I hold.
The hidden powers of the brain continue to challenge doctors and researchers. Who knows where our memories go when we are no longer able to conjure them? I confess that I think of this as I write my blogs, hoping that my children will preserve and cherish my memories as part of their own family lore. Even more mysterious than the brain is the power of love. Together, my grandparents created something palpable out of love that transcended them both. The doctors cannot explain it, but everyone who knew my grandparents was witness to its existence. It sustained them in sickness and in health, and made poignant their deaths.
Beautiful Ellen.
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