The Legacy of Nonna

Grief is dynamic. I remember when my psych professors told my class that there really is no logic or consistent pattern to it. Contrary to popular belief, the "Five Stages of Grief" are not so universally applied by all psychologists as they used to be in the recent past. The common belief now is that we may move through different stages at different times, sometimes alternating quickly or skipping a stage altogether. Scientists and mental health professionals would love it if we could make classifications and diagnostics that match everyone's experiences. But as with everything in life, that simplistic thinking isn't always so accurate and certainly is not always helpful. We all have our own stories and reactions because we all have our own complex ways of processing and coping.

As I listened to my mom as she wearily told me that Nonna had just passed away, I admit I was in denial. Because I was at work caring for the kids, I recognized that I would not have an opportune moment for it all to sink in for some time. So rather than begin truly processing my mom's words, I did my best to go about my day being strong for my mom, my sister, my cousin, and the kids. I didn't exactly allow myself to feel, because I didn't want to end up an emotional mess while I was watching over the kids. It was not ideal, but like so many initial reactions to losing someone you care about, it was a defense mechanism.

After work, without thinking I drove to the grocery store where I picked up lots of foods that reminded me of Nonna. Coming from a proud Italian heritage, Nonna strongly believed in sharing her love for us by hosting big family get togethers- which naturally involved lots of delicious homemade food. But even when it was just Becky and me spending the night there, Nonna would spoil us with treats and goodies. Most of them were made by scratch, but a couple sweets such as Toaster Strudels stuck out in my mind as something I could get easily. Rather than spend hours in the kitchen whipping up some intricate dishes like Nonna used to do, I opted for the strudels, bakery bread, and an Italian sub. As I mindlessly drove home, I realized that I was surprisingly comforted by the delicious homage.

As the next few days unfolded, I wanted to be supportive for my mom, because I couldn't imagine how tough it is to lose your mother. To some extent, I think I was feeling depressed, because I felt guilty that I felt sad. Whatever I was feeling, I assumed that my mom and others were feeling worse. I resented myself for feeling sad, because I wanted to be strong.  Of course, I rationally recognize now that it's completely fine to feel however I'm feeling. It's pointless and harmful to compare our experiences to one another's.  I wish I would have been thinking clearly enough to have seen that days ago.

Eventually, my anger had got the best of me. I was frustrated that I couldn't allow myself to feel. Then I found myself unmoved by my friends' and family members' messages of, "I'm so sorry for your loss," or "let me know if you need anything." Sure, these messages may have been entirely genuine, but somehow the words felt hollow to me. Many of us have lost someone we care for, but rarely have I found that we genuinely know how to comfort each other. And perhaps that's because there's very little we can actually do to support one another during such an emotional time. Regardless, I grew irritable and especially anxious. I was furious at myself for feeling so anxious and for feeling like I wasn't coping well.  I left social media, partially because it was frustrating to see how everyone else was so happy. The world was still getting along just fine, so why wasn't I? I grew weary listening to others' problems, because I felt like we had an insurmountable emotional hill in front of me. If I was able to comfort others, why couldn't they help me? In sank the depression. I was upset that my family was struggling and that the funeral was still almost a week away. It felt like there was little to do in the mean time besides wait and wallow. I wanted to be able to fully grieve, but I felt like I couldn't.

Finally, thankfully.... the visitation and the funeral brought a surprising amount of peace. I was moved to see how many of Nonna's family, family friends, and neighbors came out to pay their respects. 94 years of relationships and memories filled the room. As strangers pinched our cheeks and told us how beautiful we (Becky and me. Not Brandon and me. ;)) were, the atmosphere changed from somber to lively. The silence and sad whispers eventually melted into laughter and stories all involving the incredible woman we were there to honor. People I had never met before reminded me of just how special Nonna was to so many of us and how she would never be forgotten.

The next day brought even more joy. It was so memorable hearing the priest share Nonna's life story at the mass. He spared no detail describing how Nonna was a courageous immigrant who didn't even know English when she first moved here from Italy. Nonna's commitment to family, community, the Italian culture, tradition, and prayer has touched so many of our hearts. Perhaps most notably, she had been such a big part of encouraging our family to cherish as much time together as we can.

I'll never forget her tirelessly playing the Aladdin board game with us even when we constantly switched up the rules on her. How she'd let us sleep in her bed every time we spent the night. How she'd always let us watch whatever we wanted to watch on TV, even if she couldn't really understand why we liked those weird shows (Even Stevens... Hello!). How every Easter without fail, she would give Becky, Audrey, and me a stuffed bunny, until that one year she got us giant plastic eggs.  How she knitted my Baby Peach (Baby Peach can get her own blog post sometime. ;)) a new "outfit." Switching out the grandkids' photos (Poor Keith...) crookedly hanging on the walls. Sneaking into Mav and Dom's room as they played Legos. Laughing at the photo of "Funny Grandpa." Playing Nightmare Before Christmas and Dark Water, or whatever the heck we called the game where we turned on and off the lights and had a narrator telling a scary story. Climbing the hill in her backyard. Sneaking up after dinner to peak at our gifts in the mountain of Christmas presents.  How as kids we experienced an atmosphere of magic in in her home celebrating every holiday in general. Her love of the Little Drummer Boy and Pinocchio. Hiding our uneaten dinner under napkins and couches, and throwing it off pool decks because we didn't want to disappoint her if we hadn't eaten enough. Eating dinner in the poorly light basement that seemed to have been designed perfectly to fit almost 30 family members at all the mismatched tables that formed one huge table. Movie nights with her and Audrey at the nursing home. Watching Titanic and Padre Pio again and again.  Setting off the security alarm at the nursing home that one time... And the list goes on!

Reflecting more, I recognize that without even realizing it earlier in my life, Nonna's desire to be hospitable, giving, and family-focused has been embedded into who I am. From a young age, I witnessed her spend days upon days preparing for Christmas dinner with the family. I saw how it made her incredibly happy to make others feel especially loved on their birthdays. As she cooked our favorite dishes, we felt how much she loved us. I watched her pour her heart into crocheting the huge Christmas stockings for each new member of the family, until her hands literally didn't work any longer. Every single time I saw her in the nursing home, she'd try to send me home with some candy or a gift. Even when she didn't have much left to share, she still wanted to be generous.

So many small actions and traditions showed us how much she loved everyone in our ever-growing family. I know that her memory will always live on, and I hope that we all continue to be inspired by the giving and loving heart of the matriarch of the Lanzillotta family- the one and only Nonna.