The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors by Diana Raab

---

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?

---