A couple of weeks ago, my almost 93 year old grandma passed away. During her last years she became smaller and smaller, more fragile and more distant every day. It was difficult and painful to see her suffer so much, to see how the physical conditions of her life became more and more limiting, while her soul was waiting to leave this earthly life. She was my mom’s mother and for the last couple of months she was staying there at my parents’. We often wondered why she was to suffer so much, and we often talked about what to do when she would leave us, how it would happen.

Then one day she fell off her armchair, most probably because of a stroke. My mom called her siblings, telling them about it, and so they both tried to come to see her. The following day all three of her children were there around her, she was able to recognize them, they could talk and spend some time together. All afternoon. After midnight she may have had another attack, at least we think so, because she became sick. My mom was there, took care of her and stayed there with her, praying and even crying silently. She lost consciousness and never got it back. After almost 3 hours she fell asleep eternally.

The reason why I am telling you this is because in all this I could find certainty, strength, and divine grace. It was so beautifully organised, so peaceful. Her death was relieving, was returning home, was freedom. I found it comforting.
I haven’t cried, I have felt that it is just how it should be. But at her funeral there was a part when all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were named, all saying goodbye to her. And then and there I felt tears rolling down my face. It was because my son was not mentioned among the great-grandchildren. My little Peter is not considered as a great-grandchild, nor even as a grandchild. I felt a pain so deep that I could hardly stay there, I could hardly wait for the service to finish. These moments when the cruelty of others hits me are almost unbearable. You can say that they don’t do it voluntarily, but it still hurts so much. And I sort of died there and then again, too. I was thinking that he was already there waiting for her, but I could only feel this immense sadness.

I feel that I have already seen at least two faces of death so far. This one now, recently, which brings you peace and comfort, and that one, which took my little son’s life and mine as well, at least for some part, for the larger part. And among these two, I reckon, the spectrum is fairly wide. While I am able to find peace and strength in the former, the latter only makes me ache, suffer and torment myself each and every day and question my life, my place and values.

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Éva Zsák

Éva Zsák is 39. She lives in Hungary and Italy. She is a teacher and an interpreter, but now also a medical school student. Her little angel, Peter is her only child. He died five years ago due to a premature rupture of membranes. This experience changed her life completely. She started to learn about grief and child-loss and the importance of the human factor in doctor-patient relationships. She likes reading, poetry, and literature in general.

Latest posts by Éva Zsák (see all)

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