When my maternal grandfather, the only grandfather I’d ever known, died suddenly in 1993, I cried hysterically after receiving the call. 

I was his first grandchild, and he’d doted on me when we saw each other frequently before my family’s move from New York to Louisville, Kentucky, when I was four.  And, whenever we visited each other thereafter, I knew I was extra-special to him. 

He was being released from the hospital the day of his death, but he died of a surprise heart attack instead. 

I wasn’t prepared; no one was.

My maternal grandmother passed away this afternoon, and we knew it was coming.  She’s been in ill health for years.  In fact, when I last visited her in March, she was going to be given Catholic Last Rites because she was considered so close to death.  But she rallied unexpectedly, living another seven months. 

This time, she wasn’t able to recover from yet-another stroke.

My mother told me a couple of days ago that my grandmother could live hours or weeks.  But, when she called today to tell me my grandmother had just died, my mother was crying—crying hard. 

I hadn’t expected that, because my grandmother has been lingering for so long, because this was anticipated, because this was for the best, for my 92-year-old grandmother wouldn’t have wanted to live the rest of her days half-paralyzed. 

But, then I realized that, although they’d been separated geographically for four decades, my mother has had almost daily contact with her mother in the past few years, since my grandmother was moved from her lifelong home of Long Island, New York, to be in a nursing home near my mom.  So, my mother has been the responsible party, the caretaker, the only regular outside interaction my grandmother had.  My mother was a constant in my grandmother’s life, and vice versa.  And, now that constant is gone.

And, I realized that it’s likely impossible to be “prepared” for the loss of a family member, whether a parent, a spouse, a sibling or a child. 

But, when my mother called today, her crying led me to feel numb.  It’s some sort of coping mechanism I’ve developed:  When others are emotional, I feel responsible for being the calm, rational one—and I can pull it off, if I’ve had enough sleep. 

So, this afternoon, I told my mother I was sorry she was so upset, I too was glad that my grandmother had died peacefully in her sleep, and I will travel to New York for the wake and funeral.  Then I called my husband. 

That was five hours ago.  I’ve thought about how sad I am that my grandmother will never meet my son, due in April, who will be her 11^th great-grandchild.  But, because my mom sounded so sad, I still haven’t been able to let my guard down enough to cry.