Grief is Missing Pancakes
The day felt like I was walking across sharky waters on a bridge made of Jell-O. It had been several days since my dad called about my grandfather being admitted to the hospital. It was one day since we found out he had brain damage, and several hours since they trimmed down our abilities to say goodbye from 3 days to 3 hours. The sharks were eating at the Jell-O and we were about to all fall through.
My twin 5-year olds had seen something similar before when my grandmother died. We talked about what is was to miss someone who died, what “dead" means, and all the conversation topics that can make you feel like there is a fire sucking the moisture out of your throat. We decorated wooden hearts and laid them in her casket and drew pictures to remember her by. While I was always aware of why it was important to include my children in the grieving process, I never knew just how much was being absorbed.
On July 18th at 3:58pm, my grandfather was pronounced dead. Since we were not allowed to be by his bedside during COVID, my mother, four siblings, two aunts, two cousins and twins squeezed into my Dad’s SUV and watched my Papa pass on a small phone, holding hands, and sobbing. The twins played in the back with my young cousins and I wondered if they understood.
Later that night, after a good amount of comfort food that greased our tears, we headed back to our hotel. My husband and twins crawled onto the air mattress that was placed in the living room of my parents suite. It was filled with our bodies and broken hearts.
My 5 year old son looked at me and said, “Mom, are you still sad?”
“Yes, bud.” I replied
“Why? Is it because Old Papa died?” He asked to clarify.
“Yes. That is exactly why I am sad.”
“Why?” He asked again.
“Well, buddy when I was your age my Papa was the guy who did everything for us. When I was your age, my mommy and daddy were in the hospital for a long time and we lived with Old Papa and Old Mama. And Old Papa would wake up much earlier than us so that he could make us pancakes. And when we would wake up, the pancakes would be stacked high and ready.” I paused. “Who does that sound like?”
“Lolo!” He exclaimed as he does whenever he talks about my dad, his grandfather.
“Exactly. Papa was just like Lolo. He made me my pancakes and when I had a cough, he would wake up and bring me warm water and honey no matter how late it was.”
“… And he can’t do that for you anymore?” He asked quietly.
“No buddy. He can’t make me pancakes or bring me honey water anymore.” It had been years since my grandfather was well enough to make me pancakes, but for some reason saying it out loud brought waves of pain that made me ache for one of his thin Bisquck pancakes.
I watched as my son’s eyes softened like he connected the last dots to a sad picture. He grabbed my neck and hugged me. It took everything in me to keep from falling apart. He got up and started lining all of his stuffed animals around me. I smirked and asked him what he was doing. Without looking up from his very important work of lining me in stuffed animals he said, “They are going to snuggle you tonight.” I asked him, “Well, what about you?”
He sat the last stuffed corgi dog at my feet and said, “I’m gunna snuggle you too.” He grabbed my face and laid his head on mine.
In that moment I recognized just how good children are at grief before they are exposed to world’s inabilities at staying with the uncomfortable. He didn’t offer me advice or to get over it and he didn’t ask me to be happy instead. My son asked questions and I told him in away that he would understand… pancakes.
