On July 8, 2019, at approximately 2:17 am, my mother-in-law took her last breath. She died peacefully, at home, which was more than any of us could have hoped. But ALS was an angry and unforgiving monster of a disease, and had robbed her of her life long before that night.
After two years of misdiagnoses and false hope, The Mayo Clinic offered the final and terminal assessment. David had spent a week with his parents at the Clinic, running tests, listening to convoluted results that no one in the room had the education or emotional bandwidth to understand. We had hoped it was her spine, her medications, anything that was treatable. Anything but ALS. But we all knew the truth. It was just too unfathomable for any of us to say those words aloud.
The night they returned, David stood in our kitchen and sobbed. The deep, guttural sobs that suck the air from the room and leave nothing but exhaustion in their wake. "She's dying, Amy. My mom is dying." That night, we became members of the club that no one wants to join, that no one understands until they watch someone they love begin to die.
It's been nine months since Lorraine died, and the helplessness of COVID-19 has unearthed the sadness and uncertainty I have worked so hard to suppress. When Lorraine died, I missed exactly two days of work. One on the morning she passed, and one on the day of her services. I told almost no one, as her loss was a burden I chose to bear on my own. Those I did tell were kind and supportive, but often did not understand the depth of pain I felt. After all, she was "just your mother-in-law." Or, "If you think this hurts, wait until you lose your own parents."
I loved that woman fiercely. Lorraine had two sons, and had longed for a daughter her entire life. For 16 years I called her "mom" - we had a relationship that was honest, heartfelt, and filled with the Italian traditions she desperately wanted to pass on to the next generation. She taught me how to throw a dinner party, shared with me her eye for interior design, and tried (futilely) to teach me how to knit. She was an exquisite seamstress, sewing everything from drapes to bed skirts, to the dress Morgan was baptized in. She could get lost in her craft for hours, sometimes days, and emerge with works of art that continue to remind us of the ways in which she mostly easily shared her love.
At just 4'11", Lorraine was a force to be reckoned with. She had the final say in every family decision, and still carried a wooden spoon in her purse, just in case someone got out of line. My direct nature and crass vocabulary was a steep learning curve for Lorraine, as her entire life had been centered around making things pretty. She bought ribbons by the truckload, and put bows on literally everything, including the extra rolls of toilet paper and bars of soap in her master bath. Needless to say, she saw me as a work-in-progress in the class department.
My relationship with Lorraine changed forever on August 22, 2008. When Morgan Noelle Lorenzo roared into our family, Lorraine was no longer a mother and friend, she was Nana. And for the next 11 years, that was all that mattered. There were sleepovers, and baking parties, and afternoons spent sewing at the kitchen table. Birthdays and Christmas were lavish (fine, ridiculous) and centered almost solely around my daughter. And Lorraine was in her element.
By the time Clara was old enough to share in these adventures, the disease had already started to silently rob Lorraine of her ability to enjoy many of her passions. Her loss of balance meant she could no longer stand in the kitchen, and the tightening of her fingers meant sewing was more of a burden than a joy. When I think about the most painful part of her death, it's not that David and Peter lost their mother, or that Nick lost his wife of more than 50 years, it's that Clara will never have the wonderful memories of her Nana that Morgan does.
But there is a beauty to being four when your grandmother dies. Clara has brought a level of pragmatism to our mourning that made even our darkest hours more bearable. When Lorraine died, David asked just one thing of me, to tell our children so he didn't have to. I sat with Morgan in our living room, and we cried together. She was wise, and insightful, and empathetic in ways only she can be.
Morgan was sad, and surprised, but also shared my deep relief that Lorraine died with dignity, and was no longer suffering. I held her in my arms and made her promise she would tell her baby sister all the wonderful things she needed to know about her feisty little Italian grandmother.
I told Clara late that afternoon, when I picked her up from preschool. Morgan and David were waiting in the car, and Clara immediately sensed our somber tone.
"What's wrong, why is everyone so sad?"
"Clara, Nana died today. And we won't get to see her anymore."
"Oh."
"Are you okay? Are you sad?"
"Nah, it's okay. At least we still have Grandma!"
Amidst our tears, we laughed. Because she was right. Not because she didn't love Lorraine, but because she doesn't yet have the ability to process the magnitude and permanency of the loss we have experienced. And because nine months later, we do still have Grandma. And Papa, and Gampa. Who are all in quarantine, just minutes from our house. Who are still real, and alive, and very much present. And who, along with the rest of the world, want this chapter to end.
The last two years often felt helpless, and hopeless. As Lorraine slowly deteriorated, I simply stood by, unable to intervene, unable to offer respite from her symptoms or her suffering. In that time, my children have grown by inches, the seasons have changed, and we have begun to experience the year of "firsts" without her. Thanksgiving, her birthday, Christmas. And now, Easter. For as long as I have known David, he marked every Easter by giving his mother a single Cadbury Egg. Frankly, I'm not sure she even liked them, but it was their tradition. In fact, he tucked one final egg into her hand the day we buried her.
Today is Palm Sunday. While I am not a religious person, Lorraine was a deeply devoted Catholic. For many Christians, today is historically a day of celebration. Palms symbolize goodness and victory, abstract concepts for many of us right now. And in this time of uncertainty, I can only assume that if Lorraine were still here, she'd be telling us to cherish what we have, celebrate the goodness we see, and have peace in knowing this, too, shall pass.
And she would be doing it all with a wooden spoon in one hand and a Cadbury Egg in the other.
