The family foundation cracks

In early 1993, my husband and I moved with Teddy to a nice apartment three miles away from my grandparents’ house. We still were at their house for several hours every day.

The apartment had gorgeous views – a beautiful mountain out the front and green woods with a gentle stream out the sliding glass door in back.

That’s where I received that phone call from my mother in April 1993 – “I think your father shot himself.” And that’s where I received a similar phone call seven months later. My grandfather called. I was in the bathtub at the time and didn’t answer the phone the first time. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. I got out of the tub to answer. “I think your grandmother had a heart attack,” he told me.

I threw my clothes on, and we all ran out to the car. Within minutes, we arrived at the house. An ambulance was parked outside. Teddy watched as the EMTs frantically work on his beloved great-grandmother. I felt like a knife had been driven into my chest.

My grandparents were almost always with Teddy. Just like they did with me when I was small, they took naps with him, watched TV with him. Teddy helped his Papa in his workshop. He sat in my grandmother’s lap while she cooked and helped her chop vegetables. He called her Ba.

My grandmother was my best friend – the person I was closest to in the whole world. She was the cornerstone of all of our lives.

Her death devastated all of us. And Teddy was four.

Photos: Ba, Papa with Teddy, Papa and Ba

Next: A family crisis