On February 27, 1976, Leta and the rest of her—our—family suffered
a devastating loss. I don’t think I will ever forget that day. It was a Friday,
and my younger sister Michele and I arrived home from school, ran round the
house to the back door and came in. While our mother was not always in the
kitchen, her presence seemed to be entirely absent. Perhaps she was upstairs. We
were excited. Saturday was one day away, and it was going to be special because
we were going to visit our beloved grandmother Vivian, my father’s mother, in
the hospital. She, our grandfather and parents determined that she would be
sufficiently recovered from her hip replacement surgery of several days earlier
to have a 15-year-old, 12-year-old and 10-year-old visit her.
My sister and I had a collection of gifts for her that
included homemade cards and items we purchased.
Before we could visit, however, we needed to change into our
play clothes and then deliver the daily newspaper, or at least I needed to
deliver my half of the papers. My older brother Jeff and I shared a paper route
with about 50 customers. We divided the area in half and alternated each week.
In those days, newspaper carriers also collected the subscription fees, and
that was my job. Our deal was that since I did that, except for Christmas, I
got to keep the tips. This was not a terrible arrangement for my brother. Yes,
he was older, but he also was entirely responsible for delivering the morning
newspaper.
Missy and I raced through the kitchen and dining room, then
into the living room. We turned the corner, and our father was there, sitting
in the gold upholstered rocking chair. We stopped immediately.
Before Christmas our parents had separated. He was living in
an apartment, and we saw him infrequently. However, when he was living with us,
we rarely saw him. He held two jobs and worked constantly. One job was as a
sergeant with our hometown police department, and the other was in house
construction with a long-time friend of the family.
Dad was very serious, and we knew that something was up. I
don’t know how he held onto his composure, or even if he did. I only remember
the world around me going dark as his words invaded and surrounded me with
blackness. Grandma Vivian had died that morning. My sister immediately
collapsed in sobs, and I—wretched boy that I was—expressed a kind of absurd schadenfreude. I smiled, and then in
shame and grief, I ran up the stairs and into my bedroom. By the time I hit the
third step, my smile had transformed to tears, and by the time I reached my
room, I was lost to grief.
I don’t know how long I was there. I only remember that when
the first wave subsided, my father and sister entered the room.
He told us that she had been healing well, walking with a
walker and looking forward to our visit. During her morning walk, she told her
nurse and therapist that she was having difficulty breathing, so they had her
lie down. A blood clot had developed, and in a short time made its way to her
lungs. She died very quickly. While she had long taken Coumadin, she had, of
course, stopped for her hip replacement surgery.
“She wanted you to know how much she loved you,” Dad whispered
to us. “She thought the world of you kids and was very proud to be your
grandmother.”
I don’t remember how long he spoke, but I know that a second
wave of sobbing ensued, and this time he joined us.
My grandmother was, as far as any of us were concerned, the
glue of our family. She was the one who took care of us when our parents needed
someone. Her house was always open (and only four blocks away) to us, and we
took advantage of that, spending many afternoons playing, making cookies with
her and just being in her open and engaging presence. She was the one who took
care of everyone. I remember one family gathering where every living room chair
was occupied. My grandfather had refurbished a broken antique loveseat, which
only had a full back on one side. She was sitting there, and I was sitting beside
her. But I grew tired of holding myself up. “That’s a tough place to sit now,
isn’t it?” she said, putting her arm around me, so I could lean against her.
At the time of her death, our family was in some tumult,
particularly with my parents having separated. (This was not the first time
they had problems in their marriage, but this was the most precarious instance.)
My grandmother was devoting her wisdom, compassion and sense to address the
situation. After all, and I didn’t know this then, not only had her own parents
divorced when she was a girl (age 8), but she had lived through several stepparents,
poverty, homelessness and being shuffled from one parent to the other.
With her gone, the deterioration of my parents’ marriage
became permanent. I suppose it was most likely to happen anyway, but I firmly
believe that she would have guided us through the terrible transition that
resulted in several years of hurt and struggle.
My parents divorced in June and both had remarried before the
year was out.
As for Leta, my great-grandmother and mother to Vivian, she
had to live one the rest of her life under the most dreaded circumstance for
any parent—that her daughter died before she did. Not only had her daughter
passed away, but Leta was dependent on Vivian, who was her primary caretaker. (Leta
was living in a senior residence at the time, but her daughter visited her
regularly, took her shopping and on errands and brought her home for long
periods of time.) Leta and Vivian had also arranged Leta’s finances. Upon my
grandmother’s death, the caregiving was assumed by Leta’s son and
daughter-in-law, the financial matters needed to be reorganized, and even her
relationships altered.
But I am extremely proud of my mother. The surviving women had
already shared a bond (at my birth, which occurred the day after my
great-grandmother’s eighth and final husband passed away). Leta—Grandma Eckman—also
defended and supported my mother ferociously during my father’s poor behavior
(and more than once read him the riot act). After the divorce, my mother,
having retained custody of my brother, sister and me, she still continued to
visit Leta, and take us with her. In fact, my mother had a fourth child with my
stepfather and my little brother knew Grandma Eckman as
well as any of us, if not better, having spent many years of his early
childhood in her company.
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