It's been about twelve days since my grandmother passed away. I've been trying to write this since the day after and I've just had nothing. When my grandfather passed
I wrote one in two days and it was much easier. Part of that boils down to how prepared I was for my grandfather's death, having known for the better part of a year that his time was coming. My grandmother, on the other hand, was pretty much a sucker punch, one that, despite my tearful outbursts the day of the memorial, the reality of which hasn't sunk in yet. Maybe writing about it, putting some of these feelings down in words will make it easier.
And part of it is just that for thirty-three years, my grandmother was my rock and I can't imagine life without her.
The truth is that in all the ways that matter she was my mother. She raised me. She was always there for me. She took me in and she took my friends in. Everyone who knew her knew how loving and generous she was. I'd never have made it to this point in my life without her help, and I honestly don't know how well I'll make it through from here on out. I've never felt so alone in my life.
I know I'm not alone, I have an amazing girlfriend and friends who love me and I'm sure I'll be alright eventually. But the loss of my grandmother's kindness, generosity, and love has left a hole inside of me that I'm not sure what to do with.
I realize I'm not being my normal coherent self, but the thoughts are hard to pull together. One of the things weighing on me, pulling that hole open, is that I didn't get to say goodbye. She had been in the hospital for about five weeks when she passed, and I hadn't visited her in awhile. I just couldn't afford the bus fare back and forth, and I thought there was still so much time, with her diagnosis being six months to a year. No one told me her diagnosis had been changed to six weeks. And when I found out the doctor suddenly said she had about a week left, I made plans to spend the whole next day at the hospital... but she died that night and I never got the chance. Her level of awareness in the hospital fluctuated from very aware to barely conscious. I'll spend my life wondering if she wondered why I wasn't there and feeling guilty about it. All I can do is remind myself of the first time I went to see her there, when I held her hand and apologized for the way we'd argue sometimes and told her I hoped she knew how much I loved her, and she squeezed my hand and said that was never in doubt.
At the end of the memorial my aunt gave a little speech and ended it by saying that anything good anyone saw in her came from my grandmother. I hate to plagiarize, but the same can be said for me. Whatever there is good anywhere inside of me came from the woman who raised me, the woman I loved and will miss more than words can say.
Goodbye, Grandma. I'm sorry none of us ever called you "Gran." Thank you. I love you.
Night of the Hunter by R.A. Salvatore
