Time Heals All Wounds

Time heals all wounds. Until it's a year later and the wound is still raw, this is. But I suppose that's where someone says it just hasn't been enough time yet. Which I suppose is true; also true is that it's been 365 days since my grandmother passed away, and it definitely hasn't been enough time yet. The wound isn't healed. I don't know if it ever will be. And there are some things even time can never change.

While people's individual knowledge of the details vary, it's no secret that my family life definitely had its ups and downs while I grew up, more so than most. People who were supposed to be there weren't, in so many ways. They were always in different states than me, either in the physical sense or in an altered, drunken state kind of sense. But the one person who was always there, who was never too bombed or too gone, was my grandmother. Whatever I needed, she provided if it was at all within her power. And if she couldn't provide it, well, more often than not she made me realize it was something I didn't need, I never really appreciated it growing up; I was always too angry or depressed over what I didn't have to see what I did. And as I got older and "wiser" and realized what I had, I still never really appreciated it because I told myself it was about what I didn't have, not what I had.

In short, I was an idiot.

I fought with my grandmother a lot, right up until the last time I saw her before she went into the hospital. Sure, that time we fought because she wasn't eating enough and I was trying to get her to eat more because I was worried, but I didn't have to be an asshole about it. I spent too much time fighting with her and not enough time making sure she knew I loved her, and that she was the rock I could always lean on, and that I was forever grateful to her for everything she ever gave me, and I should be, because she gave me everything.

With how fast she deteriorated once she was in the hospital, just how deep the cancer no one knew was there had sunk in, she must have been sick for quite a while. I've come to believe she hung on as long as she could, until she was sure I'd be okay without her. She waited until I found someone I love with all my heart, someone who loves me just as much in return. Someone I could make a life of my own with. My grandmother's final gift to me was waiting until I'd be okay without her.

But it's a gift I wish she never gave, because I'm not okay without her. The life I've made since she's been gone is great, but it's bittersweet without her here to see it. I wish she could be here to see how happy my girlfriend are together, sharing our life, living together. I wish she could see the great job I've gotten and how happy I am now. I wish my happiness could have come sooner, so that she could be here to see it, to enjoy the fruit of all her hard work. Because there's no mistaking the fact I wouldn't be where I am without her.

I guess that's what's important; the guilt, the pain, the loss, that's all stuff that time will eventually heal, no matter how long it takes. But who I am is down to her. That will never change with time. Neither will how much she loved me, and how much I loved her.

I miss you, Grandma. I didn't say it enough, but thanks for everything. I love you.

Let time march on.