LaLa's Pink Tulip

It is never easy coping with a loved one's death, and on this day, it was a blur for me. The reverend was giving an eulogy on her behalf, March 12th, 1988. He talked of moments that were near and dear for the family...reminiscing how special she was.

LaLa didn't want a funeral or a wake, not even for the immediate family. She had much pride and didn't see the sense in people staring at her body; in her opinion, the whole funeral concept was morbid. Toward the end of her life, she gave in and allowed the immediate family to view her body when she passed on. Her thin and frail body, still in a gurney from the nursing home, was lying in an alcove in a small room of the funeral home. The cancer she had off and on for years had stolen her vitality, but she still looked peaceful and beautiful. As I stood there for a few minutes, I observed her and the family staring at her, I soon realized that I understood her reasoning...I felt I had invaded her wishes. I soon left.

When I was a baby I called her Lala and that was the name I called her until the end of her life. It's a mystery why I never said Grammy or Grandma. LaLa was like a lullaby, the name fit her well. She nurtured my heart with her smile and the sparkle in her eyes. I’ll never forget how soft her cheeks were when I kissed her hello or goodbye.

My mother and father divorced when I was young, and my father was not around. My mother was struggling financially to support my brother and me, so Lala took us in and we lived with her for a couple of years, until we were able to have our own place. My mother had a full-time job, and Lala would often have the meals cooked before my mother got home, unless she was not feeling well. She had raised eight children and loved cooking, so having the opportunity to cook for family again made her very happy. Her lasagna and Indian Pudding was out of this world.

I remember I used to dance around her living room as she sat in her favorite chair, recuperating from open heart surgery. I’d pretend I was a ballerina, flying through the air and she would always have a smile on her face and sometimes giggle with me, and occasionally say, “Be careful not to hurt yourself.”

You see, my grandmother grew up in a family when people didn’t say I love you very much, hug each other or show much emotion, so when I was able to make her laugh, it made my heart soar. Even though she would only say I love you when I said it first, I knew she loved me very much, just by the way she looked at me.

As long as I can remember she was always sick. After her open heart surgery, she was never the same. She would walk around winded, and when she climbed the stairs she would have to stop a few times to catch her breath. And when it didn’t seem like it could get any worse, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, which she battled for the rest of her life. But, being sick never deterred her from doing what she wanted. She would go on road trips with oxygen bottle in tow.

One year she took me to Wisconsin on a train ride to visit my aunt. We slept overnight on the train and it seemed like such a big adventure. We took trips to Vermont; I remember seeing where the Family Von Trapp lived, who were the family from the “Sound of Music”. We would go on lots day trips to Bar Harbor and go to Acadian Park, or we would simply drive around town during foliage season and admire the leaves or lights during Christmas time.

When the cancer started to take hold of her body, she spent most of the time in bed, reading newspapers and eating candy; she always had a supply of Peppermint Patties and Canadian Wintergreen Mints. Many days after school I would take her home flowers of some kind, lilacs and cattails were her favorite.

And so, the day of our final goodbye, we gathered at my aunt’s house, about ten family members sat in her living room and quietly listened as the reverend said his words. I do not remember much of what was said, but just that my mind was filled of her. I remember sitting and feeling very calm, in sort of a mediated state, hearing words here and there. I was content that she had finally passed to the other side, she was no longer in pain; but I was also sad, because I was going to miss her terribly.

I sat in a cushiony chair, and to my side on a small coffee table by itself laid a tulip, a magnificent shade of pink. I admired the flower's beauty, and as I stared at the tulip, it slowly unfolded it's petals. How amazing it was! My mother was sitting in a chair beside me, I tapped her shoulder and said "Look, the tulip is opening up!" I believe to this day it was LaLa, letting me know that she was there with us and was alright. I will never forget that moment and LaLa's pink tulip.

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