Content Warning: mention of suicide
My Grandfather and I
The closing years of life are like the end of a masquerade
party, when the masks are dropped.
~ Cesare Pavese
Often when a loved one dies, we try to replace that person
with someone else. Sometimes the decision to do so is
conscious, and other times it’s not. Because my grandfather
also lived with us when I was a child, it was quite natural
for me to try to replace my grandmother’s presence with
his. Having him in my life and nurturing my regular
journaling practice were two powerful healing forces for
me.
My grandfather told me stories about all his travels after
emigrating to the United States from Austria in the late
1930s. In the few weeks after Grandma died, he spent a lot
of time with me. I believe he was trying to distract me from
missing her when my parents were at work. He graciously
invited me into his world.
In fact, if there was a bright spot in the loss of my
grandmother, it was that I grew closer to my grandfather. I
didn’t realize it at the time, but she had kept me isolated
from him. Forty years after her passing, I found personal
documents in her closet. Included in them was one of her
journals, from which I learned that, in the few years before
her suicide, even though my grandparents had lived
together in the same house with all of us, they were legally
separated. Legal paperwork I discovered in her closet
revealed that my grandfather had been physically abusive
toward her. Did she prevent me from seeing or spending
time with him to protect me?
***
As children, we don’t usually question adult relation-
ships. However, there were times when I intuitively felt
things weren’t right between my grandparents. My family
wasn’t communicative about their feelings, but they
certainly gave off vibes that I was able to decipher at a
young age. As an adult, I wonder if Grandma fabricated the
story about Grandpa striking her to find her way out of an
unhappy marriage. Would she do such a thing? Who was
the hummingbird and who was the dragon? I’ll never
know.
With me, my grandfather was a gentleman who intro-
duced me to the cultural wonders of New York City. For
about twenty years, until his untimely passing, he and I
were quite close. So, I’m left wondering—are we all
chimeras and shapeshifters who exist as different beings in
different spaces and moments and with different people? A
hummingbird one moment, a dragon the next?
Many of us have different personas and wear different
masks at different times. Only those close to us truly know
us. My mother was a master of masks. To the outside
world, she was charming, vivacious, and joyous, but at
home, she was somber and depressed. I wonder if she
inherited this trait from my grandfather, who also wore
two masks. He was abusive toward my grandmother yet
gentle and caring to me and others. Many people have two
masks: an inside mask that we keep for our loved ones and
an outside mask for the world to see.
As an avid reader and longtime observer of character, I
understand the appeal of masks. A mask portrays emotions
or serves as protection. In the sport of falconry, a falcon is
fitted with a mask called a “trapping hood” to calm and
protect it in scary situations. My grandfather’s “trapping
hood” could have been his way of protecting himself from
expressing rage in public. It calmed him, enabled him to
act like a gentleman.
If we feel unloved by others, we might hide behind the
mask of anger. If we’re afraid, we might hide under a mask
that antagonizes others by insulting them or putting them
down. If we’re insecure about our perceived status, we
might hide behind the mask of name-dropping—talking
about celebrities or important figures. If we’re insecure or
unsure of our power, we might hide under the “tough-
person” mask. If we’re in a bad or difficult relationship, we
might wear the mask signifying that everything is okay.
Apparently, this was the mask my grandparents wore.
***
A few years after my grandfather died and during my
nursing residency in Montreal, I had an interesting
encounter with a female patient who, in so many ways,
reminded me of my grandmother. While I didn’t find it
significant at the time, looking back, I recall that she had a
photograph of a hummingbird on her hospital bedside
table. I remember remarking on its iridescent colors. She
told me she loved those birds and had special feeders in her
yard with sweetened red water that attracted them.
***
That day began with morning rounds, which involved
the doctors, nurses, and nursing students going from room
to room to visit all the clients on the unit. The head nurse
or physician in chief summarized the reason for the
patient’s hospitalization and their current status.Sometimes
a patient’s condition evoked a discussion, while other times
the clan moved quickly from one room to the next.
We entered Mrs. G.’s room, and I stood at the back of
the line. When I moved forward and saw her, I was stunned
beyond words. I thought I was looking into the eyes of my
grandmother. Her blonde hair had dark roots that matched
her well-defined eyebrows. She was applying lipstick, and
her mannerisms were Grandma’s. She traced her mouth
with a lip liner, making her lips appear larger, and came to
a well-defined point in the middle of her top lip.
“I feel naked without my lipstick,” Grandma used to tell
me, and I sensed that Mrs. G. held similar sentiments.
She finished applying her lipstick and sat in bed, dressed
in a pink skirt and matching floral blouse. When I asked
why she was not wearing a hospital gown, I was told that
she insisted on using her own clothing, something Grandma
would also have requested. I watched this striking, sixty-
something blonde woman staring out the window. Her blue
eyes emanated intelligence, pain, and reflection. I wondered
if my grandmother’s eyes showed the same pain before she
took her life.
***
“Mrs. G. has been depressed for many months,” said the
doctor in charge. “Her family admitted her to the hospital
because she tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose
of her blood-pressure pills.”
The mention of the word suicide made me feel as if a
dagger had been plunged deep inside my heart. I was glad
I’d gulped down a bowl of cereal that morning. It helped
ease the sudden nausea.
***
The head nurse approached me and whispered, “Mrs. G.
attempted to kill herself the night she found her husband,
twenty years her junior, sleeping with another woman.”
Then she stepped out of the room.
I gasped.
I couldn’t leave the room. I felt a gravitational pull
toward Mrs. G. I nudged myself closer to her bed in the
small, private room with the window overlooking the
hospital roof. I carefully drew the privacy curtains around
her bed and sat on the vinyl chair beside her. Part of me
wanted to wake her—to hear her voice, her tone, her story.
Another part of me was petrified. I stared until I heard the
head nurse’s footsteps outside the curtain. She poked her
head in through the opening.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded, afraid to admit how the woman resembled my
grandmother—in appearance and mannerisms and deed. I
thought about the possibility of removing myself from the
unit because I had a family history of suicide. On the other
hand, with my background I felt as if I should be there. It
was strange being in the company of a woman who so
closely resembled Grandma. When looking at her
photographs, I’d look deep into her eyes, wondering if I’d
ever find out why she killed herself. I stopped when I
realized I never would. Still, I’m comforted by the
knowledge that we had such a powerful and deep love for
each other. For now, this would have to be enough.
My grandparents never spoke about each other to me.
In discussions with each of them, whenever I mentioned the
other’s name, whomever I was speaking with didn’t
respond but sat with a blank affect, similar to the vibe I’d
picked up from Mrs. G. Their silence told a story. My
childhood was filled with ambiguity, especially when it
came to the relationships of my parents and grandparents.
In a sense, everyone came together in their love for me. I
was the glue that held the family together, something I
continue to do now as I’ve become a grandmother myself.
That evening, when I returned home from the hospital, I
pulled out my journal to write about the day’s experience. I
glanced up at the framed quote hanging above my desk,
which is from François Mauriac’s book, The Desert of
Love (1960): “We are, all of us, molded and remolded by
those who have loved us, and though that love may pass,
we remain none the less their work—a work that very
likely they do not recognize, and which is never exactly
what they intended.”
Reflections / Writing Prompts
What genetic traits did you inherit from a beloved
parent or grandparent?
Have you lost a loved one whom you tried to
replace with someone else?
Are you familiar with a story about someone that
emerged only after they died?
What were your superpowers when you were
younger? What are they now?
What were your passions as a child, and who
inspired them?
Diana Raab (she/her), MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, workshop leader, thought-leader and award-winning author of fourteen books. Her work has been widely published and anthologized. She frequently speaks and writes on writing for healing and transformation.
Her latest book is Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors, a memoir with reflection and writing prompts (Modern History Press, 2024).
Raab writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, The Good Men Project, Thrive Global, and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at: https://www.dianaraab.com.
Raab lives in Southern California.
Maggie Rue Hess (she/her) is a PhD student living in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her partner and their crusty white dog. She serves as Poetry Co-Editor for Grist: A Journal of the Literary Arts. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Connecticut River Review, SWWIM, and other publications; her debut chapbook, The Bones That Map Us, was published by Belle Point Press in 2024. Maggie likes to share baked goods with friends and can be found on Instagram as @maggierue_.
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