Most people get 25 years before they sit in the front rows of a funeral mourning a grandparent. I got 15. I sat in a black dress that I got rid of after, and if you asked me what songs were sung or what was said, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It was just a blur until my grandma asked me to say goodbye and gestured to me to walk towards the casket with her. I looked in and said goodbye, but it felt like I was saying goodbye to nothing.
At fifteen, my perception of grief was that it was painful and I thought I could cheat it. What I know now is that you have to feel pain if you ever want to heal.
The person lying in the casket was not my grandpa. The person I saw struggling in the hospital was not my grandpa. My grandpa was a farmer with a mechanical mind who hated sitting around. My grandpa was the biggest supporter of his grandkids athletics, especially basketball. My grandpa was the person with the pocket knife on Christmas Eve at gift time. My grandpa was the one who belted church hymns the loudest on Sundays and after got donuts for breakfast. My grandpa was the one who took me on combine rides and put a smaller seat in the tractor for his grandkids. I couldn’t imagine him dead.
Grief will consume you, whether slowly or right away. That first holiday season, he was brought up. Everyone would cry, and I would try to disappear before I did too. I spent more time at my grandma’s house during the holidays, so she wouldn’t be alone. Every time I was there, I expected him to be there too. He obviously never was, so I avoided going to the shop where he used to work or the basement where he kept his old tools and candy stash. When basketball tryouts came around, I didn’t try out. What was the point? I had only kept playing because he liked to watch and talk about the game. I spent that year trying to forget.
I truly believed that if I avoided what my grandpa loved–and what reminded me of him–that it would hurt less and I could move on faster. Now I know that only delayed my grief. I started thinking of times where he was doing his favorite things and I was right there with him. The pain of grief softened with each memory I remembered instead of focusing on what I’ve lost. I remember the last time I saw him in the way I want to remember him. We had convinced him to spend the Labor Day weekend at the lake. He wasn’t thrilled to be there at first, but he was happier just laughing with the whole family. At the time, it felt like a perfect lake day. When he was leaving he hugged me, but he didn’t say goodbye. Instead he walked up the hill towards the car and said, “see you later” in a way I can still hear in my head. Looking back on that memory I realized two things. My grandpa will always be a part of my life through memory, and it’s just a matter of time until I see him again.
