Portals and Mirrors of Grief
pancakes, cards, and love: a tribute to those who care for grievers
Yesterday Grant woke up with a craving for an old-school diner, so we went to Rae’s. We sat at the end of the counter on teal upholstered stools with a view of the chefs whipping up pancakes and eggs with vigor.
The menu was full of naughty foods that my dad loved. Chicken fried steak, sausage gravy over biscuits, corned beef hash. It reminded me of the fare at Ruthy’s diner, a spot in rural western Pennsylvania that my dad would sneak away to early in the morning, much to my mom’s chagrin.
An unusual choice for me, I ordered the corned beef hash (here it came with a grilled slice of pineapple on top), scrambled eggs, and rye toast. The kind of magical diner toast that has butter on the inside of the stack that melts perfectly between the pieces of bread. Grant ordered the country gravy and biscuits with a side of bacon.
I bit into a crispy piece of bacon and was instantly transported through a portal. The sense memory catapulted me to tears. My dad wasn’t a good cook, but he did make breakfast, specifically Grandma Frey Pancakes (or GFP for short). The recipe is from his mom’s side of the family who was from Alsace–Lorraine, a part of Germany near the French border. The geographical proximity to France is reflected in the texture of the pancakes, which resemble flat eggy crepes rather than fluffy pancakes. My dad would usually pair the pancakes with crispy, or often overly burnt, bacon.
Although there were glaring reminders of him from the moment we walked into the diner, I pushed the grief gently away, keeping the it at bay until that moment. Without conscious awareness or voluntary volition, I was hurled back into it. Tears streamed from my face, so I put on my sunglasses and kept eating my breakfast.
The reminders were not over. When we walked outside, we saw not one but two yellow cars in a span of 10 seconds. My dad’s favorite color was yellow and he owned an infamous 1990 yellow mustang convertible that was uncomfortable but fun to ride in. His phone case was yellow. It was almost a comical personality trait of his that he loved yellow. He would buy random things just because he liked the color.
Grant held my hand as tears fell again from my eyes and said, “I miss him too.”
Sometimes partners can sense and name the grief before you do. They are beautiful mirrors, reflecting back what you yourself cannot feel. Sometimes feeling it for you. Witnessing.
In a moving episode of Anderson Cooper’s podcast All There Is, Steven Colbert recounts how his wife Evie notices his grief for his brother Peter in moments when he doesn’t:
Evie said, "What's that belt?" I said, "That's Peter's." Then it occurred to her what I'd said. There was a pause, she goes, "That's your brother's belt?" I said, "Yeah." But I wasn't, you know, choked up at the time. I said, "Yeah." And then she said, "You've been carrying that belt around for 40 years?" And it didn't even occur to me that I had done that. [….] And she recognized it. I didn't even realize I had done it. I didn't realize that the belt was him. If you know what I mean.
In The Grieving Brian, Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor talks about how people who are “grief adjacent” are often deeply impacted by their loved ones who are grieving. Doubly so, I imagine, for people who are themselves grieving and also trying to support a loved one who is in the throws of it. She described how sadness is contagious via mirror neurons. And how vital their support is.
We came home from the diner and I spent some time organizing papers on my desk, since we are preparing to move soon. It was the hardest kind of paperwork to go through: sentimental stuff including birthday cards, graduation cards, and more recently, sympathy cards. Cards from my parents. I found the lyric sheet signed by my dad for the song he wrote for my graduation.
I was surrounded by stacks of cards from beautiful friends and family, and feeling so grateful. For my amazing partner for witnessing me. For my friends who picked me up from the airport after visits to Pennsylvania during the fall when I would travel back and forth to help during rounds of chemo, the same friends who meal-prepped lasagna and soup. Grateful for friends who sent me flowers and talked to me for hours on the phone. For people I haven’t talked to in a long time but who sent my family care packages. For some acquaintances I don’t know that well who have also lost a parent and have reached out. Grateful to you for reading this. And touched that you have messaged me.
Some days I am filled with grief but I am always surrounded by love.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Emotion Lotion to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.