I wanna say beautiful words and I think I can
“In the midst of life we are in death” (Joan Didion)
Dear Friend,
I hereby warn you that what you’re gonna read right now is going to be a somewhat sad post; however, I am writing these words from a space of grief combined with gratitude, for the world and for how it was, for the loss, the loss of a world with her in it, for having the luck to having been alive in a world where she was alive, too, a world in which she loved me and I loved her.
Thursday was an ordinary, gloomy day. I woke up a bit agitated and, not knowing what to do with myself, body and mind, I sought refuge in creative endeavours: I packed two books, three notebooks and my camera in my backpack, put on some warm, cozy clothes and left the house. All I wanted to do was to find a little beauty in an otherwise grey and heavy fall day, and sitting in a cafe and taking a few photographs of Nürnberg seemed to be my great plan.
I changed two metros to arrive as close as possible to the cafe I had in mind;
after ordering a cappuccino and an apple cake, I took a sit at one of the few empty tables that were left, jot down a few ideas, completed my gratitude journal for the day, read a little from a book I’ve started back in May, all while following closely a few very kind interactions between strangers - those instantly get my full attention. At some point, a man in his seventies who was sitting next to me turns to me, he catches my glance, and proceeds to tell me: Your handwriting is absolutely gorgeous!
I thank him politely and I am happy for the beginning of what has been a half an hour long conversation. The man is curious, he asks me why I am in Germany, what am I doing, and at some point he says to me: I don’t know why, but I like you, however, this hectic must go away. I wasn’t sure what he is saying, so I asked him further questions, like what do you mean, I have zero understanding. He replied that I am agitated even if I seem very calm, that the way I sometimes move gives that off, I do things very sudden and that this all is a big sign of someone who has been under a lot of stress, the consequences of a big shock.
I am not very surprised, not so long ago a friend told me that I look like I’m on the run, asking hey Anca, do you have to be somewhere?
The man proceeds to tell me a cure for that: two tablespoons of high-quality olive oil, one in the morning and one in the evening, and you’ll be okay!
I thank him, we continue talking about something else, meanwhile he shares his name with me, then his country of origin which is Czech Republic, I instantly think - ah, I’d love to tell this to my grandmother, I planned to mention it in our call in the afternoon (which then I did forget). He slowly packs his bag, gives me a small object as a little memorabilia and before he says goodbye, he adds: One more thing, friend. There is something else better than olive oil, and that is to be loved well. And poof! With that he disappears into the rain.
As if on Thursday morning I wasn’t confused enough already, now I felt lost. This whole conversation with the stranger I’ve just met left me in that state because I had no idea how to feel about it; my instinct was to go out in the rain, howl a little, let everything out and go about my day. In that moment though, I put myself back together, finished my cappuccino, finished my cake, packed my iPad with the book I was reading on it because my mind wasn’t there any more, put everything into the bag and sat in quietude for a little while. By then, the cafe was almost empty and everyone was almost gone.
Not too much time after that, I decided to go out into the rain (which was only a drizzle by now), with my camera hanging around my neck. I didn’t want to go home, so I started walking towards where my feet were bringing me, and my feet decided that I should walk down my favourite streets, taking a picture here and there in my way. The instinct of howling or crying or having a breakdown in the cold disappeared; the only thing that was left was a strong desire to move around and be outside as much as possible, which I did until my hands turned red and felt almost frozen. I needed to processes this conversation, but more than that, it was that kind of day when I felt like having to process my whole life. I remember going home, but I don’t remember much of what I did until the evening when I had a dear friend at my place, we drank store Glühwein and listened to a lot of music until night came around and I was preparing for bed.
It was 22:55 when my brother called. My brother rarely calls, and when he does, he’d usually ask me first if I’m around. Even more so, he would never call so late, back home it was close to midnight. I knew.
Life changes fast.
Life changes in the instant.
You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.
— Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
Grandma just passed away, my brother told me in an agitated voice. Our call didn’t last longer than one minute, and in all truth, what was there more to say?
We’re never fully ready for death. We’re never fully ready to hear about it, talk about it, write about it, and even more so, to welcome it in our homes and in our hearts. But the thing is, death happens, all the time, and it won’t spare anyone.
In a way, I was prepared for the death of my grandmother for a year now.
Last 14th of November, she had her first stroke; I was in the States, on a work trip, and the night before the 14th I had a dream of me and my brother being together at her house on the countryside, playing in the yard - we were both little, and I don’t remember what exactly was going on, but my grandma started to shrink - in that particular dream, she got smaller and smaller until she fit in the palms of our hands, a very small figure we started inspecting with plenty of curiosity, until she disappeared completely. I woke up from that peculiar dream in the dark hotel room in Chicago, trying to tell myself I should get back to sleep as jet lag will mess with me even more if I don’t; it was about four in the morning and needless to say, I couldn’t do anything more than toss and turn.
I didn’t tell my dream to anyone by then, but it has never left my mind ever since; about my grandma’s stroke I have found out only a few days later, while visiting a friend in North Carolina. I was a bit upset for hearing about it later than it happened, but it was also very difficult to rush my return; when I did, I reached back to Germany and booked a ticket to home. For a few days I’ve inhabited a liminal space - I could have been, physically, wherever in the world, whereas mentally - I was afloat in the space between life and death.
Every phone call that came at a strange time, and every time I was told to come home, they were all some sort of rehearsal for my dear grandmother’s death; I was prepared, I knew her, the death, sneaking right around the corner, I wanted to hunt her down but couldn’t, she would win at some point, because this is life, it just can’t go on forever. Very upsetting, yes. So this call I have got one year later after the childhood dream was something far from a surprise, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t shock me. The thing about death is - the loss is eternal.
It’s been three very long days ever since she passed. The night I found out about her death I’ve barely slept. It was strange because I didn’t know what I feel, how I feel everything, my body was in some sort of shock. I put on some candles, I prayed, I have listened to a grief meditation, it was supposed to calm my mind but my mind didn’t want that; it was hard to find my space on my couch, in my home, alone, far from her, far from my family.
Friday morning, I committed to taking care of the dog of a friend, and it was probably the best thing that could happen. If I didn’t know what to do with myself, I at least knew what I was supposed to do with and for my furry friend, and that gave me a sense of control - taking her out on long walks, making sure she gets water and she’s well fed, playing with her; everything, everything. At one point, late afternoon, I was exhausted from my days of terrible sleep and all the emotions, so I gave in to sobbing; in that moment, the dog stopped playing and doing her thing, jumped next to me on the couch and rested her small head on my legs, looking at me with very kind eyes. I felt so seen, without even having to say a word, and that was beautiful.
Saturday I spent the whole day traveling home; I found a flight from Memmingen to Sibiu, and while both cities are still kind of close to my homes, they added a few extra hours of being on the road. In transit, my head is clear, at least that I know. The surprise of the day was the man that drove me from the airport to my hometown - a calm, warm person; I was in need of a stranger with a soothing demeanour, and here he was. Two hours with him on the road, we managed to fit a wide array of topics, from death and family and grandparents to therapy, emotions, healing, God, relationships, what it is to be a human being.
Our conversation gave me the needed strength to go through the door of the apartment in which my grandma, not too long ago, would still patiently wait for me to come home.
Today was her funeral; this day was so long but in a way, it went by so quick. As per orthodox tradition, there are plenty of rituals and things to be respected; it took years for me to understand that they, too, make sense, and that sometimes, getting busy with solving certain things and preparing others and going through rituals is exactly what is needed to distract you but also to make you more present, if that makes sense. Seeing her today made everything more real; it wasn’t my wish, I wanted to keep her face in my memory as I knew her, but sometimes we have to face our biggest of fears. It was difficult, and painful, and I wanted everything to not be real..
I’m very grateful, though. I am grateful that I had her in my life for 31 years. I am grateful for all the love she had for me; my dad told me that a few hours before she died, she called my name; I’ve seen her on video call a few hours before her death, but at some point she gestured that I should go, that she can’t bear to talk to me, or to hear or to see - not herself, not me, this time there were no kisses on the screen, maybe she knew that it was the last time, she didn’t like dramatic endings, she didn’t like big displays of emotions, she told us to not cry when she dies, and asked us many times if we have black clothes; and now, all I want to ask her is to come back.
Thank you very much, thanks to everyone who sent me a supportive message, to everyone who kept my grandma in their thoughts and prayers, to my dear friends from Brasov who have been with me today, life is great because we have each other, let’s always take good care. <3 I’ll be here next week, by that time with a few things I would like to jot down about her. She loved telling stories, and I feel that it is my duty to tell hers - or at least, a small fragment of that. So, if all is well, let us meet next week, same time, same place.