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My mother and sisters and I visited my grandmother on occasion, and since it was my father’s mother and not my mother’s mother we didn’t visit often. My mother put up with my grandmother’s unsolicited advice and sat quietly out of a sense of duty with a politeness the way mothers did back then, but she mostly demurred at having to ready three young girls and driving an hour only to land into an awkward and uncomfortable situation.

Every so often a friend of my grandmother’s was there.  I’ve forgotten her name, but she and my grandmother addressed each other as “darling” in a class accent that amused me. My grandmother and her friend were beautiful, older women and full of pride. Her friend was what you’d call a handsome woman with chiseled cheekbones that had lost their youthful rounded softness and eyes that had sunk into deep wells. Her medium brown hair, meticulously dyed, was set into large and soft waves and was perfectly arranged. Her voice was kind and clear, and she made it a point to engage me into conversation even when we said very little.

At least that’s what my grandmother’s friend was like on our previous visit. I hadn’t realized a couple of months had gone by since we’d seen her until my mother mentioned something about her having “cancer.” My mother was on a phone call and I pressed her for details but it was the 1960s, and it wasn’t for a child to interfere with adult issues. I knew it was a terrible disease and that people died from it, but I figured I would learn more about it when someone deemed it appropriate enough to explain it to me. That’s how it went in our family. And, I reckoned, that was how it was supposed to be.

We next visited our grandmother on what would have been an otherwise unremarkable day. My grandmother’s friend was there. I went to greet her with more enthusiasm than usual, the way one does after an extended absence. As I approached, her silhouette became disjointed. I blinked, but the shape of her face didn’t change back to what it should have been. What seemed wrong from a distance became distilled up close. I tried to act stoic like I hadn’t noticed, like nothing was different, but I couldn’t avert my stare. I studied it–that part of her that was missing and the part that was still there.

My wide eyes may have given it away. I may have inhaled or gaped my mouth. But she forced her gaze into my eyes and kept me on track by talking to me the entire time. I responded with one-word answers and nods while she kept me on my feet. She was a genius. She spoke out of the good side of her mouth, and I had to look there to read her lips. Emotion welled up inside of me, but she was so strong that I couldn’t let myself crack. Her courageousness was breathtaking. I maintained my equanimity because of her selflessness. She made a seamless transition from handsome woman to a disfigured beauty. She was still the epitome of beauty, yet it was more than just a superficial, handsome appearance. She taught me a valuable lesson about Inner Beauty that day through her bravery and tragedy.

Afterward, I found out that the right side of her jaw had been removed due to bone cancer. Why didn’t they warn me and prepare me for the shock, I wondered. My family’s communication skills were mind-numbingly dysfunctional and caused an ache in the pit of my stomach.

As a mother, I’ve taken the opposite approach with my children. I’ve over-explained even when they haven’t asked. Sometimes they tease  me about saying more than they want to hear.

“Too bad,” I tell them.