My grandmother passed when I was 18; destroyed as I was, it was mine the task of being my mother's grief counselor — on her mother's death. That was the one event in my life that showed of what I was made of and which contribution is mine to give to the world.
I remember every moment of it, like it is burned in my memory, tattooed. Grief is like that: it consumes you, sneaks into your skin and becomes a part of who you are.
I was working at a seminar as the coordinator's assistant, talking to a friend as I got the call. It was my aunt:
"Nani?..." my nickname, but there was something swinging along with her voice... I stood very still, as if any gesture could cause a landslide, but if I didn't move, maybe nothing would happen. Maybe she wouldn't say the words she did and I wouldn't be telling you this story now. But I moved. I moved because I gasped, and my hand met my chest, and it did because my heart stung. I moved, you see? I moved and she said it: "Nani, come home, your grandmother died."
I stopped breathing then and there, my knees gave way just a bit because there was a question to be asked, my grief needed a direction: "Which grandmother?" I had two. For which one must I fall to the floor now?
"Your grandma Carmem."
My mother's mom.
My knees were gone, shattered like broken glass, like my world at that moment. I fell. A friend caught me. I saw people, the course's attendees standing up to help, to ask, to know. "What happened? Did someone die?"
Yes. My grandma.
The drive back home was filled with the foggy sensation of choked minds. Memories rushed in like the waves of an angry ocean. Something had happened that morning, something I hadn't told anyone yet, as we drove through the moist heat of Rio de Janeiro in a car smelling of hot leather and smoke. Close to dawn, at about four, someone called my name. It was a gentle female voice: "Nani". I woke up, because I believed it was my friend with whom I was staying, waking me up to go to work, but there was no one there, only the chirping voices of the night. It was still dark and I went back to sleep. Then sitting in the car, watching buildings and trees pass through a veil of tears, I remembered… and I cried even more.
That was the call I should have answered. Had I only known.
We arrived at her house, the paramedics were already there. My aunt and uncles, my cousins coming from everywhere. All out in the garden, static, statues with moist, red eyes.
My friend who drove me there was a doctor, she went in to see her, and came back shaking her head.
"Don't go in. That's not your grandmother anymore. Remember her as she was; don't take this image with you."
I was mad at first but that was good advice, I could see it in her eyes that my beloved grandma was unrecognizable and didn't go in. Her home remained unstained for me and I thank my friend for that.
Her body was gone to the hospital, she had died with no witnesses and an autopsy had to be done. But the worst was yet to come: my mom, who was living in another state at the time. My mom, who was as attached to her mom as much as I was attached to mine was flying in — and I had to pick her up from the airport.
The hours didn't pass by gently, didn't respect my grief, things had to be done and no adult in my family was in the spirits to do it. The odd child had to do it. The odd child, who loved ghost stories and apparitions, who visited cemeteries in her spare time, who wrote poems to the full moon, who dreamed about riding the dragon Falkor. Who read gothic novels like there was no tomorrow, who wanted to be picked up by the vampire Lestat. The odd child with the dark blood in her veins. Me.
I followed the paramedics, I answered the questions. I waited for the report, dreading that my mom wouldn't be able to see her because it was hot and she had been long dead — since about 4 in the morning...
My mom still needed to fly in and they wanted to bury my grandmother. Her voice over the phone had that desperate plea only grief can produce: "Don't let them bury her! I need to see her!"
Please, God, don't let them do this.
"Could you please embalm her?" I asked the funeral home. "My mom needs to see her. Please…"
And they did.
I left the hospital and got into yet another car driven by yet another friend and let it all go. I had to cry it off because there would be no more crying possible once I picked up mom. Someone had to be the rock and I was the only one solid enough to do it.
The airport was far away, I cried until I had no more water left to be pressed through my eyes.
I let the numbing calm of tears take over, and I embraced her when she came out of the gate, red like a live volcano burning with tears.
Mom cried like a child, sobbing, almost not breathing. I was the rock.
We arrived at the wake, smelling of flowers, who smell of the dead because they too wither, ornamented as they were, sacrificed and gone. I saw my grandma the moment she saw her, and my friend had been right back at the garden: she was nothing like her. It made it difficult to believe that she was gone, it would make the stage of denial last longer. Purple like a doll, with cotton in her nose. The hair was beautiful, shiny black with sticks of white, so dignified! The funeral home did all the best they could, one could see that and I was so grateful.
So was mom.
When all was over and my mentor, my grandma, my friend was six feet under the ground never to give me wise advice again, I knew I was someone else. Maybe even something else.
My doctor friend said: "Now you know what you are made of. You can face life; you are as ready as you'll ever be."
One month later I flew to Germany. Two years in and I still haven't grieved her properly. Seven years after that I would become a published author of Gothic novels. And all my life I could navigate darkness, and sit here writing for the dead, hearing them call to me at 4am, as I guide their loved ones through darkness, which is my home.
For I am a nocturnal creature: the one with the night vision.
I remember every moment of it, like it is burned in my memory, tattooed. Grief is like that: it consumes you, sneaks into your skin and becomes a part of who you are.
I was working at a seminar as the coordinator's assistant, talking to a friend as I got the call. It was my aunt:
"Nani?..." my nickname, but there was something swinging along with her voice... I stood very still, as if any gesture could cause a landslide, but if I didn't move, maybe nothing would happen. Maybe she wouldn't say the words she did and I wouldn't be telling you this story now. But I moved. I moved because I gasped, and my hand met my chest, and it did because my heart stung. I moved, you see? I moved and she said it: "Nani, come home, your grandmother died."
I stopped breathing then and there, my knees gave way just a bit because there was a question to be asked, my grief needed a direction: "Which grandmother?" I had two. For which one must I fall to the floor now?
"Your grandma Carmem."
My mother's mom.
My knees were gone, shattered like broken glass, like my world at that moment. I fell. A friend caught me. I saw people, the course's attendees standing up to help, to ask, to know. "What happened? Did someone die?"
Yes. My grandma.
The drive back home was filled with the foggy sensation of choked minds. Memories rushed in like the waves of an angry ocean. Something had happened that morning, something I hadn't told anyone yet, as we drove through the moist heat of Rio de Janeiro in a car smelling of hot leather and smoke. Close to dawn, at about four, someone called my name. It was a gentle female voice: "Nani". I woke up, because I believed it was my friend with whom I was staying, waking me up to go to work, but there was no one there, only the chirping voices of the night. It was still dark and I went back to sleep. Then sitting in the car, watching buildings and trees pass through a veil of tears, I remembered… and I cried even more.
That was the call I should have answered. Had I only known.
We arrived at her house, the paramedics were already there. My aunt and uncles, my cousins coming from everywhere. All out in the garden, static, statues with moist, red eyes.
My friend who drove me there was a doctor, she went in to see her, and came back shaking her head.
"Don't go in. That's not your grandmother anymore. Remember her as she was; don't take this image with you."
I was mad at first but that was good advice, I could see it in her eyes that my beloved grandma was unrecognizable and didn't go in. Her home remained unstained for me and I thank my friend for that.
Her body was gone to the hospital, she had died with no witnesses and an autopsy had to be done. But the worst was yet to come: my mom, who was living in another state at the time. My mom, who was as attached to her mom as much as I was attached to mine was flying in — and I had to pick her up from the airport.
The hours didn't pass by gently, didn't respect my grief, things had to be done and no adult in my family was in the spirits to do it. The odd child had to do it. The odd child, who loved ghost stories and apparitions, who visited cemeteries in her spare time, who wrote poems to the full moon, who dreamed about riding the dragon Falkor. Who read gothic novels like there was no tomorrow, who wanted to be picked up by the vampire Lestat. The odd child with the dark blood in her veins. Me.
I followed the paramedics, I answered the questions. I waited for the report, dreading that my mom wouldn't be able to see her because it was hot and she had been long dead — since about 4 in the morning...
My mom still needed to fly in and they wanted to bury my grandmother. Her voice over the phone had that desperate plea only grief can produce: "Don't let them bury her! I need to see her!"
Please, God, don't let them do this.
"Could you please embalm her?" I asked the funeral home. "My mom needs to see her. Please…"
And they did.
I left the hospital and got into yet another car driven by yet another friend and let it all go. I had to cry it off because there would be no more crying possible once I picked up mom. Someone had to be the rock and I was the only one solid enough to do it.
The airport was far away, I cried until I had no more water left to be pressed through my eyes.
I let the numbing calm of tears take over, and I embraced her when she came out of the gate, red like a live volcano burning with tears.
Mom cried like a child, sobbing, almost not breathing. I was the rock.
We arrived at the wake, smelling of flowers, who smell of the dead because they too wither, ornamented as they were, sacrificed and gone. I saw my grandma the moment she saw her, and my friend had been right back at the garden: she was nothing like her. It made it difficult to believe that she was gone, it would make the stage of denial last longer. Purple like a doll, with cotton in her nose. The hair was beautiful, shiny black with sticks of white, so dignified! The funeral home did all the best they could, one could see that and I was so grateful.
So was mom.
When all was over and my mentor, my grandma, my friend was six feet under the ground never to give me wise advice again, I knew I was someone else. Maybe even something else.
My doctor friend said: "Now you know what you are made of. You can face life; you are as ready as you'll ever be."
One month later I flew to Germany. Two years in and I still haven't grieved her properly. Seven years after that I would become a published author of Gothic novels. And all my life I could navigate darkness, and sit here writing for the dead, hearing them call to me at 4am, as I guide their loved ones through darkness, which is my home.
For I am a nocturnal creature: the one with the night vision.
