Chère Grand-mère

by Joanne Glasspoole

The most vivid memory I have of my grandmother is picking raspberries with her early in the morning in my backyard. I am 10-years-old. The raspberry bushes—more like thickets—are abundant with beautiful, ripe berries. I love picking raspberries, and this morning is extra special. I carefully pick the fragile berries off their vines to fill my bowl, but I’m eating berries too.

Grand-Maman is about 70-years-old. She is petite—just barely 5 feet tall—and pleasantly plump. She has thinning, light brown hair, and I know if it weren’t for the dye my mother put in yesterday, her hair would be white as snow. She wears the most delicate wire rim glasses, and even though she’s old, her face is smooth as silk. Grand-Maman is gathering berries in the belly of her apron, and I can see she is like me and takes berry picking very seriously. I watch her nibble a berry and smile to myself. It is wonderful picking raspberries with Grand-Maman!

After we are finished stripping the raspberry bushes clean, we retreat to the backyard. Grand-Maman is sitting on a lawn chair and me on the grass. The day is bright and very sunny. She pulls an apple from her apron pocket and a little paring knife and slowly begins to peel the apple. I like the way the apple skin dangles in a long curly strip around her hand. After she is finished peeling, she slices the apple and hands me a wedge. I watch her shake a little salt on her’s before putting it in her mouth. She savors the apple as if it is the most delicious treat in the world.

We can hear sounds coming from the kitchen window. My mother is running water to make the morning coffee. Before we know it, we are joined by my three brothers and sister and our two cousins, Yves and Lisette. My cousins speak French, and I am envious because they can talk to Grand-Maman. My mother comes outside, smiling, and hugs her mother.

“Bonjour! Est-ce que vous avez bien dormi, Maman?” she asks.

They exchange a few more mother-daughter words and then my mother takes the berries from us, promising to make a delicious dessert for dinner.

When I think about the times I spent alone with my precious grandmother, they were few and far between. Grand-Maman lived in Shawinigan, a small city in the province of Quèbec, so I didn’t see her very often—maybe 10 times in my life. I remember she had the most beautiful voice in the world. I loved listening to her talk. She spoke softly and it was like music to my ears. When we were by ourselves, she would ask me “oui” or “non” questions. Luckily I could understand her, but I couldn’t express myself the way I wanted to. I would have given anything in the world to speak French.

When she was alive, I often dreamt of her. In my dreams we understood each other. Sometimes my dreams were in French, and I could speak fluent French. Other times I would speak to her in English and she would reply in French.

In late 1993, I suggested to my parents that the three of us should go to Shawinigan. Since they liked to travel in the fall, we made our plans for the following September. I was studying French in school to prepare for the trip and was excited about the prospect of having a conversation with my grandmother—even if my fluency wasn’t that great.

On August 31, 1994, a week before we are set to leave, I get a call at work. It is my mother, and she is very agitated.

“Grand-Maman is in the hospital,” she tells me, her voice all choked up. “She had a heart attack and the doctors don’t think she has very long to live.”

I can’t believe what I am hearing. I try to reassure my mother that everything will be all right, but I don’t feel so sure.

When I call Northwest Airlines to book two flights to Montreal, they inform me the tickets are $865 a piece, which we can’t afford. We have no choice but to drive. Since my father is suffering from cataracts, we beg my sister Nancy to come with us to share the driving with me. She doesn’t want to go. She has a new baby and feels guilty leaving him behind. She suggests taking Edward along, but we tell her it isn’t practical to take a newborn on a 1,200 mile car trip. The four of us leave the following day.

The mood in the car is somber. It is incredibly hard to stay positive, because we are all afraid Grand-Maman will die before we get there. My mother is a nervous wreck, and we are worried sick about her as well.

After a long two and a half days, we arrive in Trois-Rivières, where my aunt and uncle live. When we learn Grand-Maman is still alive, we are overcome with relief. Thank God!

When we go to the hospital to see her, she is unrecognizable. She looks so small in her bed. She is emaciated and weighs no more than 100 pounds—I feel like a giant beside her. Her hair is completely white and she is hooked up to IVs and wearing an oxygen mask. It is very discouraging. When my grandmother awakes and finds us there, she smiles the slightest grin. My mother immediately goes to her and sits down at the edge of her bed and takes her hand. My sister and I stand against the wall feeling awkward, not knowing what to say.

Looking at us with a thin smile, she says something to my mother about “les petites filles.” I find this amusing, because my sister and I are in our early 30s, but she still refers to us as “the little girls.”

Grand-Maman is very weak, and it takes a lot of energy for her to talk. She moves the oxygen mask aside to speak a few words, gasps for air and then covers her mouth and nose again. It is awful to see her this way. She asks Nancy about her new baby. My sister quickly pulls out a photo and goes to show it to her. Grand-Maman tenderly kisses the picture.

I still haven’t moved since we entered the room and am nervously standing against the wall—I want so much to say something in French, but I feel intimidated. My grandmother looks up at me and comments that I have gained weight. I try to make believe I’m not bothered by this remark, but I cringe inside and immediately feel fat.

Because she is getting weaker with each passing minute, we don’t stay very long, maybe half an hour. It is hard to leave after traveling so far to see her, but we go, promising to come back later. We stay in Trois-Rivères only three days. Every time we go to the hospital, I stand silently against the wall listening to everyone else talk. I try to get the courage to speak but feel too inhibited because there are always other people in the room.

On Wednesday night—our last night in town—I tell my mother and sister that I want to have a few minutes alone with Grand-Maman. After the room empties out, I timidly sit down beside her and take her hand. I am nervous. I have rehearsed this moment over and over again in my mind, but the words don’t want to come out.

“Je suis très contente de vous voir,” I mumble. “J’étudie le français un an pour parler avec vous.”

My grandmother looks at me with a quizzical look on her face. She smiles and tells me she has to go to the bathroom. Feeling stupid, I smile back at her and say good-bye.

I reunite with my mother and sister in the hallway, and they ask me how it went. I tell them she didn’t understand me. Although it’s not funny to me, we laugh. I am disappointed she didn’t understand me, but relieved that I tried.

After we return to the States, my grandmother slowly starts to recover. She leaves the hospital in mid-October and moves in with my cousin, Ginette. My mother and I excitedly make plans to go visit her in March for her 92nd birthday. I am still hopeful I will have a chance to talk to her in French.

Four days after leaving the hospital, however, she has a stroke, which leaves her paralyzed and unable to speak. One week later she dies.

On November 3—exactly two months from the day we left in September—my mother, brother Herman, and I fly to Montreal for her funeral. It is raining and continues to rain cats and dogs the next two days.

It is overcast and softly raining the day of the funeral. We are exhausted, and my brother and I nervously look at each other. When we enter the church, my mother breaks down. I softly touch her shoulder to let her know I’m there. I am overcome with grief seeing my mother this way. Suddenly my cousin, Linda, comes running over to my mother’s side to comfort her. My brother and I are embarrassed that we are not the ones comforting our mother.

People are slowly making their way down the aisle and we move like zombies. We sit in a pew toward the front of the church. My mother is in terrible shape, but she has stopped sobbing. The three of us kneel. My mother is saying her rosary. It is very quiet in the church. With sadness, I stare at my grandmother’s coffin in front of the altar. Her casket is surrounded by dozens of beautiful, colorful bouquets, and I am pleased to see that my mother’s bouquet is displayed prominently in the front.

The priest is eulogizing my grandmother. I remark to myself how beautiful it is attending a funeral in French.

Suddenly I notice the church is filling with heavenly sunshine. A tremendous beam of light is shining directly on my grandmother’s coffin. I can feel God’s presence in the room and wonder whether I’m the only one noticing this phenomenal miracle. A calmness sweeps over me. Knowing that He is watching over my grandmother makes me feel at peace with her death.

The sun continues to shine as we drive to the graveyard, but it is very windy and cold.

After the benediction, we are forced to leave because another funeral procession is coming. My brother and I wait for our mother as she says a private prayer beside her mother’s casket.

Walking back to our car, I keep stealing glances back to her grave site. Her casket stands alone in the world. I think about my precious Grand-maman and hope she is at peace. I feel guilty leaving her there all alone. The moment seems so final.

When we leave the cemetary gates, I notice the sun is beginning to disappear behind a shield of black clouds. Not long afterwards, it is pouring rain again.