In the Summer of 2017, my grandmother passed away from stomach and esophageal cancer. Over the past few months, I have collected my thoughts and literature that has accompanied me on my grieving process.
Every year on my birthday for as long as I can remember, I’ve received a call from a private number (although we are well rooted in the 21st century, my grandparents still have their number unlisted) and I always knew before answering that it would be my grandmother on the other end, and she would begin serenading me with “Happy Birthday”. No introduction, no “hello”, she would sing the song, then when she was done, she would greet me. “How does it feel to be (this many) years old?” she would ask me every year. I grew to expect it. Which was why, on my 19th birthday, roughly a month and a half after she passed away, I broke down in her bedroom, asking out loud to seemingly no one, “Where are you?”
You might be thinking that that’s an outlandish response to not getting sung to on your birthday, but that wasn’t the only problem. My family was outside on the porch, we were going to have our cake, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom inside. Even though you are surrounded by so many of your loved ones, when someone close to you dies, it still feels like there is so much missing from your day to day life.
The strangest part about losing someone is that it still feels like she is here, but somewhere very far away, where we can’t contact her. Some days it feels like she’s on some vacation she’ll be coming back from. It’s quite confusing when the “presence” of someone still lives even though their body no longer is.
I would not look at her at her funeral. It was a closed casket service, but the immediate family had the opportunity to say their last goodbyes with the top open. When my mother joined me afterward in the entryway of the funeral parlor, I dragged her to the bathroom and blubbered like a baby and repeatedly said: “It’s just not fair!”
Death is both fair and unfair. It’s natural, it happens – or will happen – to everything on this entire planet. So, why is it something that we find so hard to deal with? It is something that isn’t talked about. When you do talk about it, you’re considered morbid. People are shocked you’d bring up such a “depressing” or “dramatic” topic. Yes, it’s an emotional discussion that can be hard to deal with…but why do we avoid it so much? Do we want to put off thinking about it until that last possible moment? Is it something we should just take out of the back of the closet when we have to attend a wake or other mourning service?
In the past year and a half, I have had countless times where I will go to call her to tell her about some part of my day, and it’s just as confusing each time that I realize I can’t. I think about her every day. I’ve found, more and more, that I am extremely like her. I say and do things that remind me of how she acted. I constantly feel like I can’t escape the bittersweet memory of her because there are parts of her ingrained in me.
Her decline was harsh. I cried all the time. I visited several times a week, not knowing exactly how long we would have together. I did her nails once a week to keep her spirits up, and it was an activity that took a good amount of time that we could both participate in, and we started to try out different polish colors that she had never worn previously, as a woman who strictly wore sheer, pink colors for decades. She started to love wearing red polish, which was a color she deemed her whole life as too “gaudy” for herself. I was in the room when she signed her DNR papers for Hospice care. It seemed like she (understandably) was having such a difficult time coping with the realization that she was resigning to the fact that there would be no “after” this whole ordeal. My mom was with her most days, taking care of her (who on the outside, remained so incredibly strong throughout her sickness) and for a while it was hard, feeling like I was alone in the house, not knowing how to deal with my grief. Most nights, my drive home from work or dance would be filled with tears, as it was the one time of day I could finally put the music as high as I could and sob audibly. A few of my friends slowly stopped talking to me during this time, and I honestly think it was because I was so saddened that I was depressing to be around. I remember one particular night after I walked into her room and realized she had declined visibly since the previous visit, losing weight and a little more color in her face. Towards the end, she slept most of the time, and when she was awake, she wasn’t coherent. It was when I felt as if she were already gone, although I knew she would wake at certain parts during the day, just not when I was there. The car ride home after that was rough.
My grandmother and I would spend many afternoons sitting side by side on the couch in her living room, both with a book in our hands. We would become enveloped in our respective novels, still enjoying the company of each other. She was definitely a great influence early on in my love of literature. So, it seemed natural that literature would become something that has helped me the most in my most part of my life.
But, the same things that have helped my mother and my grandfather mourn didn’t help me in the same way, and that’s normal. Not everyone heals the same way. So, here is some literature that has helped me, and I will be including resources at the end for those coping. Keep in mind that, while these may help you, it can help to talk to a professional about how you’re feeling.
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Kal by Fatimah Asghar, If They Come For Us
Allah, you gave us a language
where yesterday & tomorrow
are the same word, Kal.
A spell cast with the entire
mouth. Back of the throat
to teeth. Tomorrow means I might
have her forever. Yesterday means
I say goodbye, again.
Kal means they are the same.
I know you can bend time.
I am merely asking for what
is mine. Give me my mother for no
other reason than I deserve her.
If yesterday & tomorrow are the same,
pluck the flower of my mother’s body
from the soil. Kal means I’m in the crib,
eyelashes wet as she looks over me.
Kal means I’m on the bed,
crawling away from her, my father
back from work. Kal means she’s
dancing at my wedding not yet come.
Kal means she’s oiling my hair
before the first day of school. Kal
means I wake to her strange voice
in the kitchen. Kal means
she’s holding my unborn baby
in her arms, helping me pick a name.
2. Still Pt. 2 By McKenzie Teter, Dirty Soul
Death was listening
When the results came back
A simple matter of time
Death stared
And I looked away
Because I was too afraid
To watch the skin hug your bones
Or your handwriting glide
Outside the lines because
There were earthquakes in your hands
Death laughed
When things crashed in the kitchen
Or my name became a question
Death hummed
Along with the piano
As your body was presented in a box
A simple matter of time
Death walked
In circles around my life
Lingering just out of sight
But close enough to keep me cold
Death stayed
Longer than expected
Now Death and I sit
And talk about you.
3. (A piece of music, but with words like poetry just the same) Cancer by My Chemical Romance
Turn away
If you could get me a drink
Of water ’cause my lips are chapped and faded
Call my aunt Marie
Help her gather all my things
And bury me in all my favorite colors
My sisters and my brothers
Still
I will not kiss you
‘Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you
Now turn away
‘Cause I’m awful just to see
‘Cause all my hair’s abandoned all my body
Oh, my agony
Know that I will never marry
Baby, I’m just soggy from the chemo
But counting down the days to go
It just ain’t living
And I just hope you know
That if you say
Goodbye today
I’d ask you to be true
‘Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you
4. (Another piece of music) Nana by the 1975
I wish you’d walk in again
Imagine if you just did
I’d fill you in on the things you missed
Oh sleepless night, a grown-up man dressed in white
Who I thought might just save your life
But he couldn’t, so you died
I don’t like it, now you’re dead
It’s not the same when I scratch my own head
I haven’t got the nails for it
And I know that God doesn’t exist
And all of the palaver surrounding it
But I like to think you hear me sometimes
So I reached for a borrowed fleece
From my dad or from Denise
Always trying to keep warm, when you’re the sun
I sat with you beside your bed and cried
For things that I wish I’d said
You still had your nails red
And if I live past 72, I hope I’m half as cool as you
I got my pen and thought that I’d write
A melody and line for you tonight
I think that’s how I make things feel alright
Made in my room, this simple tune
Will always keep me close to you
The crowds will sing their voices ring
And it’s like you never left
But I’m bereft you see
I think you can tell
I haven’t been doing too well
If you have a friend who is still grieving from a loss, be a good listener, make sure to respect the person’s way of grieving, (so long as it isn’t damaging to them or others) and encourage them to reach out to a professional.
Remember that you don’t ever have to “get over” your loss. You will find a way to cope with it in everyday life. Doing activities your loved one enjoyed and volunteering/donating to your loved ones’ favorite charity or organization can help honor their memory.
Grief Recovery Helpline: 1-800-445-4808
Center for Loss & Life Transition: https://www.centerforloss.com/