My only grandparent who is still alive is my Dad's mom. Of my four grandparents, she is the one I was least close to growing up and throughout my adulthood. It's no family secret that she favors my sister over my brother and me. And so, even though she lives 10 minutes from me, I don't often think to invite her over or spend time with her. Both my brother and I tried for years, but we became tired of being compared to our sister and eventually our invitations waned until they finally dwindled down to once or twice a year.

Less then two weeks ago, my Aunt died after a long battle with breast cancer. I loved my Aunt, my Dad's only sister. She never had biological children but she was a fantastic step-mom to my Uncles two boys and she was a great Aunt to me, Ed and Amber. I will miss her.

My Dad called me this week and asked me to reach out to my Grandma: "No one in our family can know what she is going through, except you. It might be helpful to her to have someone to talk to". His words brought tears to my eyes for my Grandmother and for me.

But, I had already called my Grandma and invited her to dinner because even though we aren't close, I now feel a connection to her. I was so touched to learn that my Dad recognizes this connection, but I know that my Grandmother doesn't. While she was sad for me when Hannah, Ryan and Abby died, she is from a different generation where people did not talk about babies dying. They did not hold funeral services or take photos of a baby after s/he had died. I don't fault her for that and I realize that our situations are different. I can not imagine what it feels like to come home to the house you raised your children in, knowing that one of them will never step foot in that house again. I do not know what it feels like to look at a lifetime of photos and think about a lifetime of memories that must bring both comfort and horrific sadness. I have promised myself that because I probably do understand best what she is going through, I will make the effort to reach out to her as often as I can and to listen to whatever she wants to say and that I would do so without ever saying "I know how you feel". I recognize that even if I do, she wouldn't understand how I could and it wouldn't be helpful for her to hear a comment like that. I can't force her to feel a connection of loss that she just doesn't see.

So, Rod and I let her talk and we listened as she talked about her feelings during the funeral service, how she could imagine my Aunt dancing while the organist played "Amazing Grace" (he started with a slow, beautiful beat which changed pace and ended in a breathtaking jazz rendition) and how thoughtful my Aunt and Uncles' friends are. Her mind was wandering as she talked, and eventually, she began sharing about her feelings of helplessness towards the end; how she felt, holding her daughter's hand, knowing she was going to die. Rod and I silently nodded and continued to listen. I felt tears in my eyes and when I looked over at Rod I could see his pain~the pain he felt, perhaps for my Grandma, but certainly for himself. Since I was unable to be there, it was Rod who sat, holding Hannah and then Ryan, knowing they would die and knowing he couldn't' do anything about it.

I knew this would be difficult but I didn't expect that listening to her would take me right back to the labor and delivery room that we lived in for so many days-the feelings of grief washing over me so strongly. I tried so hard to listen to her but my thoughts kept going back to my own grief, my own feelings of inadequacy, my own desperation to make sense of something that makes no sense.

I guess I thought I could understand her grief over losing her daughter without feeling my own grief over losing Hannah, Ryan and Abby. I now know I can't.