Family Mosaics — Jenna Cutter
I was on the cold floor in the entryway of my Grandmother’s house. It was late morning and I was scrolling through my phone, replying to snaps while petting my dog’s belly. My dog had been trapped in the entryway of this house for three weeks. Not cause we hated him, but because my Grandmother was on medication that thinned her blood due to the stroke that trapped her to this bed and scrambled her brain. If he had gotten out and scratched her, her blood would not have been able to clot and she would have bled out and died.
I was there for about fifteen days. We had seen her improve her communication and mobility, then the next day she would take two steps back as her confusion increased and her appetite decreased. My aunt came to stay over on the last night, sleeping in my Grandmother’s bedroom. While making lunch for myself in the kitchen, I saw my parents and Aunt head into my grandmother's bedroom. Then I heard quiet whispers and quiet sobs that sounded like a dog whistle. A sharp rattle that shakes your thoughts and leaves your eardrums hurting. I didn’t want to bother them, and I didn’t want to hear them cry, so I took my Danimal and oyster crackers and went to sit with my dog.
I heard a voice above my head and looked up to see my dad staring at me, his face twisted with pain. His forehead was scrunched up and he had a squinty look on his face.
“She’s gone.”
I don’t remember how I felt after that. All I remember was leaving my dog as he cried and jumped against the gate, begging to leave the prison we created. I wish I could say seeing my Grandmother die was what broke me. Really, it was seeing my family members fall apart. I remember my Aunt sobbing, her body flung over my Grandmother in almost a shielding sort of way. I watched as my Mother prayed for her Mother-in-law at the foot of the bed as tears streamed down her face. I watched my Dad cry for the first time in my life. My Dad, whose main emotion is joy, was crying over his dead mother.
An hour later my aunt’s Mother-in-law came to visit and to drop off some food. I stood in the kitchen overlooking the driveway, watching my aunt break the news to her. Her face crumbled as a loud sob escaped her mouth. She fell onto my aunt as more cries escaped her lips. I remember my aunt balancing her on her shoulders as she entered the house, her cries of grief piercing the air. I remember her hugging me telling me how sorry she was for my loss. I remember her telling me about how great of a woman she was. I remember her telling me that no matter what, even if we are not blood related that she would always be my Grandmother. Four years later I went to church for the first time for her funeral.
A few hours after my Grandmother died, my cousins drove the hour and a half to us straight from their school. When they came over we all hugged each other and cried. Our tears of grief blended into one pool of sadness. An hour later all the Grandkids got dismissed from the house as they had to move my Grandmother’s body. We piled into my uncle’s big suburban and I sat in the back of his cramped car. My sweaty knees were plastered on the seat in front of me, my knee caps choking me. With all six children in the back, we started the drive to my cousin’s Grandmother’s house. The rest of the day felt like a blur. My mind was clouded with the sticky floor of Papa Gino’s, a house adorned with needlepoint artwork and flower pattern couches, and grief filled hugs. Dozens of faceless arms rested on my shoulder. She will be missed, you know that.
Over the next few days, the rest of my family flew in from around the country which included my cousins, Brandon and Bella, who flew in from the deep south.
Bella was an ER nurse, now an ICU nurse in South Carolina. She has seen some fucked up shit including and not limited to: a man shooting himself in the head, in his car, in the hospital drop off lane, blood everywhere, brain matter everywhere, bone fractures everywhere, and of course a lot of objects stuck in peoples asses. But that was back in her ER days. She then became an ICU nurse which meant seeing a lot of people who had strokes, like my Grandmother.
When Bella came for the funeral, I went on a walk with her and her brother. As we walked around, Bella said something that I will remember for the rest of my life. She said something along the lines of how our Grandmother had died because of her. So much to unpack there but two things to know: one it was obviously not her fault, and two, she is a new nurse who lives in a whole other state far away from her meaning, she wasn’t able to see the signs of a stroke. Now what will always haunt me is my lack of response or more accurately my lack of a good response. I think I said something close to “Oh my God no, it’s not your fault.” Shitty, I know. Thankfully, her brother picked up the slack and explained to her that it was not her fault. I think about that often, as the Grandchild who spent the majority of her time with her sick Grandmother. I saw her at her worst, those images of her sickness ingrained into my head. I should’ve told her that it wasn’t her fault, that it came out of nowhere, cause it really did. I wish I could text her now and say, hey, I love you so much and she does too. It's not your fault. But I can’t.
My family is not as close as I wish we were. Between the age gaps and growing up in vastly different places completely separate from each other, we never really had that cousin bond I always wanted. But after My Grandmother died, it was almost like we were trauma bonded and it honestly brought my family together. It created a relationship between me and my cousins where there wasn’t one before. My eldest cousin was given a mission by our Grandmother to bring the family closer together. Specifically the cousins. She said that as the eldest grandson, he should bring all the cousins together as she wanted to make sure that no matter what happened to her that we were cared for and still were close with one and another. I remember the night after the funeral, we all packed into my Grandma’s cramped tiny kitchen with my family sitting wherever they could. The three bar stools were quickly taken up leaving us to sit on the counters and floors. All the adults of legal age got a little tipsy leading to some great stories flowed freely and laughter ricocheted off the walls. I remember having to massage my jaw and hold my stomach as my body was in pain from laughing and smiling so hard. At that moment I knew that my Grandmother would have been content to see all of us in that moment, like one big happy mosaic of a family. Once broken but together creating an artwork.
Jenna Cutter is a sophomore living in Massachusetts. She was born in Bangkok, Thailand and moved to the US her freshman year. In her free time she enjoys making ceramic pots in the clay studio, asking strangers to pet their dogs, and homework procrastination.