The day after Gran died, Virginia was inundated by an historic snowstorm. We chose to drive south on I-95 in the midst of it to spend an early Christmas with Tim's family.
I felt myself gliding, acting on automatic; smile here, laugh there, eat... it wasn't so hard.
Coming home was harder. The snow, heaved to the side of the street like so much refuse, had turned a dingy gray. The lines of traffic ahead of us plodded slowly along, careful of the slick patches the snow plows had missed. Light glared off the crest of the snow, blinding me. I had an hour in the car with nothing to do but think.
Today I sat in my psychiatrist's office with my five year old on my lap. Crisply, I informed him of Gran's death. He wrote me a two month prescription and conveyed his condolences.
I left his office disturbed at with the quiet in my head. When I feel emotion, it is only anger. I bristle when told to rejoice for her soul. I seethe when told it is a blessing she is no longer suffering.
Sitting to compose this, though, I did think of how fortunate I am... I had time to adjust to the idea of losing Gran. The knowledge of the imminent end allowed me to prepare myself. I have no regrets, no secrets I didn't share. Indeed, to many my loss may seem almost trivial... how many 39 year olds still have their grandmothers? One acquaintance even sniffed, as I mentioned my grandmother's impending death, "And how old is she?".
True. She lived a full life.
Yet, she also filled mine with so much happiness... and I have much more life to live without her.
Is anger part of the grieving process?
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