Bubby Sylvia first became ill when Peter was two and I was seven. I was hardly aware of the gravity of her illness, kidney cancer, partly because her symptoms weren't very serious at first; but also because Bubby was so gracious, so modest that she never uttered a word of complaint.

Not long after, though, her husband, our Zaida David, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Unlike Bubby's illness, his worsened quickly; when Peter and I were four and nine he was in visible pain, and even our Bubby, who found joy in so much, looked solemn.

And soon the task of telling Peter about death became unavoidable, though I know that our parents dreaded it.

I have been told that young children do not understand death. I had thought so myself at nine, when Zaida died; but witnessing my brother's grief changed my mind. Peter wept openly and continuously for a week; he cried aloud in agony when Zaida was mentioned, and it was clear that he was anguised that he would never see Zaida again. He kept looking at photo after photo of our grandfather, telling us that he loved Zaida and wanted to remember what he looked like.

And then, one day, he forgot.

He was visibly shaken as he trembled in bed, unconsolable by even our mother. "I don't remember him!" he screamed. "I don't remember what he looked like! I only remember the photos; I don't remember HIM!"

Grief had struck him, and clenched at the very core of his soul. Nothing we could say could reassure him that though Zaida would always be missed, our lives would continue without him; nothing we could do could make him remember.

continue...
posted by Adelaide at 7/15/2000 12:06:26 AM