How do you mend a broken heart?
It was my Grandpa’s birthday on Friday, it’s my grandma’s birthday today, but this year is the first year that I won’t get to celebrate with either of them.
I lost my grandpa last January, and my grief journey hasn’t been what I expected. For the few weeks after, all I could think about was him. For some reason, though, I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t muster up the emotion to let it overflow. I wouldn’t let myself break down. I thought that when it eventually came time to say goodbye, I would collapse into pieces, drop to my knees, but none of that happened. For a while I wondered if that made me a bad person, a bad grandson. Why wouldn’t I just let myself cry?
Looking back, I think it was probably because I was at school, I wasn’t home. A piece of me wanted to believe that it was all just a bad dream, a brief scare, and even though my flight home was booked, I would walk through the front door and see him asleep in his rocking chair. I would help him get ready for bed, and see him shuffling towards me in the morning as I ate my breakfast. I wouldn’t need to put on the black suit I had just bought. The tribute I wrote in my journal would just be something I could keep with me for when it eventually did happen. It couldn’t have happened right? Right? Right…? Grandpa bounced back, just like he always did. He pushed through, as he always taught me to do. He wasn’t gone just yet. Not this time.
Thursday, February 8, 2024, 8:30pm. I drop my suitcases in the car, and hop in, ready for the 30 minute drive back home. It still didn’t feel real. It didn’t matter that I was home in February, only 2 weeks after I boarded the plane back to the US. He would be there. He had to be there. My family and I are talking about how I almost missed my flight, and had to run past 30 gates to get to mine and got there just in time. School was going well, I was still getting into the rhythm. Work was good, the weather wasn’t too bad, I saw snow for the first time. We park in the driveway. I hop out. I take my suitcase out, and open the gate.
The chair is empty, no big deal, it’s late, he’s probably getting ready for bed. Where is Selene, his nurse? I should tell her hello. I put my suitcase down in my room, but where are Zachary’s things? For a room we share, it doesn’t look like it’s been touched since I left. I walk into the bathroom. Where’s the stool? Why is there only one towel and rag? Where’s his toothbrush? No chance he finally threw it out. I walked into his room, and then the weight of it all finally falls on me. His cane isn’t there anymore, neither is his copy of Atlas Shrugged, neither is his clock radio, or his picture of Grandma. The same lamp I turned on and off as I told him goodnight, didn’t have the familiar pair of glasses hanging off it. He’s really gone. As in, gone forever. This wasn’t some renovation project that we were doing, it was a permanent switch.
You would think that being away for so long, I would be used to coming back to changes. A new fridge or microwave. The hedge has been trimmed. We changed the colour of a room. It’s one thing to come back to cosmetic changes, but to come back to a house that feels emptier, blank, quiet, isn’t something that you can ever become used to. Like it or not, this is what my home looks like now. A house of 6, is permanently 5 now. Even still, that was only the first wave, and I didn’t cry still. It was just numbness, empty.
Saturday, February 10, 9:30 am, I walk into the church, and that’s when it finally feels REAL. I see the ashes, next to an amazing portrait. Inside the ornate wooden box is the man who, apart from my parents, played the biggest part in raising me. The same man who encouraged me to play chess, the man who paid for my robotics lessons even though I stopped after the first semester. The man who day or night, would always answer my messages. The man who sent me emails with quotes, books, lessons, articles every other day until he stopped needing his phone. The man who, even in the last weeks of his life, was still as sharp and witty as ever. The person who I see myself most in, the ideal version of myself. Me if everything went right.
The man who I helped with his pyjamas, or his sandals. The man who held onto my arm as we walked slower and slower. The man who I would tuck in and say goodnight, and turn off the light for him while making sure the fan was blowing hard enough to keep him cool. The man who I sat with, just taking it all in, in silence. Why didn’t I do it more?
The worst thing you can feel in loss is guilt, and as much as I’ve tried to suppress it, a part of me feel guilty. I thought I had all the time in the world. His time wasn’t running out, even if everything pointed to that being the case. Right? I should’ve called home more, to hear his voice, even if I couldn’t make out what he was saying clearly. I should’ve spent every moment of my time at home on the patio with him. I should’ve told him more about my new life, the journeys that I went on, the man I’ve become and am becoming. WHY DIDN’T I TAKE MORE TIME???
WHY
WHY
Why
why
It hit me like a truck. The night before, while practicing my tribute, I let myself finally break down. An hour before, I had cried again, practicing the tribute. I struggled to make it through and I just hoped I could soldier through the real thing and eulogize him in a way that showed him, smiling down on me, that he had done a good job in moulding me into the man I need to be. Thankfully, I think he enjoyed it. Usually telling jokes at a funeral aren’t the best move, but mine landed anyways. I balanced stories with reflections, and most importantly, I didn’t cry until the last sentence. The tears continued to flow throughout the service, during his favourite song, where memories from church, the dinner table and the hospital room came flooding back. During the tributes, seeing my mom cry. Seeing the box be carried to the columbarium, not only his, but my grandma’s as well. Even though she died in 2011.
Grandpa’s things weren’t there only things missing when I got back home. Since 2011, grandma’s urn has been a staple on our mantle, but I realized it was gone. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, but at the service, I saw two boxes, instead of one. I wasn’t only saying goodbye to my grandpa, but I was saying goodbye to my grandma, my first best friend, all over again. I saw their ashes go into the portion carved out for them, and as the marble slab with their names went up, and separated us forever, they were gone. My childhood was done. The memories of lazy Saturday evenings and early Sunday mornings, weekend trips and holiday plans were finally locked in time, finding a permanent home in my mind. I can’t ask, ‘Do you remember when” anymore, I wouldn’t have anyone to ask it to. It’s just me now. They slabs went up, were sealed, and that was it. I was back on the plane 12 hours later, and was back at school the next day.
How can you mend a broken heart?
I still don’t know. Being away has made it easier. The reminders aren’t there. I can allow myself to become preoccupied with other things, keep myself busy. I haven’t cried since the funeral. Does that make me a bad grandson? I do miss them, really I do, even if my tears continue to hide.
Grief is weird. Of course I’m sad. Deep down I knew that the hug I gave him, even as his eyes stayed shut, in the early morning of January 23, would likely be the last one. I didn’t want to believe it, but I read him the note I wrote him two summers ago just in case he would never have a chance to hear me read it. I squeezed his hand, hoping, praying that he would squeeze back, like he always did. He never let me squeeze his hand wiithout squeezing back. Maybe he did and I just let go too soon? Right? I sobbed at his bedside, I said any prayer I could think of. Listened to him breathe, watched his chest rise up and down, counted the time between each beep of the monitor. The last week at home, I went to the hospital every day. I wanted to be there, be by his side, just like he had always been for me. I begged God to let me be by his side. Please, please, please, please. Little did I know, even before the plane left the tarmac, he had beat me to the sky. And I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t there for my grandma either, I was at a sleepover, and I just stayed an extra night, I was only 7 to be fair, but even though I was always with her, the time she needed me most, I wasn’t. There has to be a reason for it, but that doesn’t ease the pain. It’s probably better to know for certain when the last time you see someone will be, instead of letting the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach tell you. I wasn’t there, but they were they for each other, and that comforts me.
He was there to help her let go, and I want to believe that as he made the transition early that morning, she took his hand and pulled him into an embrace that carried the weight of 12 long years. I knew how much he missed her. No day went by without her being on his mind. Her picture greeted him every morning, and kissed him as he drifted off to sleep every night. He wasn’t alone when he napped on the patio, she was on his lap, and they rested together. She cradled his head on her lap as he drifted off on a hot summer day. She was always with him in the car as he drove. I’m sad they’re both gone, but I’m happy that they are finally together again.
As they celebrate both their birthdays this weekend, I know they wouldn’t have it any other way. I can just imagine it now. Walking down the beach, reminiscing on their journey together, picking apples from an orchard in the sky, tending to a vegetable garden that is always full. He’s singing happpy birthday to her, taking forever to finish whatever cake they decided to get. They’re hanging out on a cloud, letting their feet dangle as they watch the sun set. They’re looking down. Beaming with pride at the family they built, the legacy that has come after them. I wish I could tell them about my day though, or even jsut sit together, enjoying each other’s company, no one saying a word, but nothing needing to be said. I wish I could get them birthday cards, and be the one to give them some money for a change. But I can’t do that.
I can only remember. I can only remember. We can only remember. Remember all the good times, and the bad, and let the memories comfort. They’re always with me.
Happy birthday Norma and Mer-Mer,
I miss you every day, and I wish I could see you again, hug you one last time, and hear you tell me that you love me.
I'll love you forever.
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