It’s April 6, I’m sitting at the wooden table in my barren dorm living room with the sun streaming through the open windows. The air is warm but not heavy, perfect for a spring day. Outside, I can hear the gentle rustle of tree leaves brushing against the building and the taunting chirps of birds. It’s the kind of day that seems to beg for joy, movement, and presence. And yet, I can’t bring myself to feel any of it.
It’s funny that four years ago this day held zero significance. It was just another page on the calendar. It was the day Mormonism was founded and the first Tony Awards ceremony, but those events never affected me. Then, three years ago, my grandpa died. Suddenly, April 6 became a day that still knocks the air out of my lungs.
It wasn’t a shock — or it shouldn’t have been. But when someone is alive, laughing, and loving suddenly isn’t, no amount of warning can fully prepare you for something like that.
I remember the day things got bad — really bad. In my mind, my grandpa was always a little sick. His love for bologna and hamburgers may have contributed to this in the form of heart disease. Then one night, my father, my grandpa’s son, and my stepmom sat me down on their bed and explained to me what was happening,
“They’ve just run out of options… so they’re going to start hospice care,” my stepmom said.
I adjusted myself on the foot of their bed. Anxiously fiddling with the beige comforter, I said, “I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s focused on making someone… comfortable… instead of better,” she spoke gently.
“Oh,” I looked at my father, trying to read his expression.
We talked for a while longer. I didn’t know what to say, what I should say, what questions to ask.
“So, how much longer does he live?” No, too blunt.
“What happened? Wasn’t he fine a week ago?” No, too soon.
So, I settled on, “Okay.”
Then I hugged and kissed them goodnight and went to bed. I didn’t cry — not that night. I lay there trying to imagine what “comfortable instead of better” looked like. I don’t know why I didn’t cry. Maybe I hadn’t processed? Maybe I was already at my emotional cap with tech week for my spring musical, Cinderella? I don’t know.
I’d experienced death before. I’ve flushed many goldfish, come home to dog toys that won’t be played with again, and watched my mother mourn the sudden loss of her soulmate, but my grandpa? Was I ready for this?
Well, hospice doesn’t wait for you to be ready. The next day, my grandpa was moved into a room. It was nice. I remember it being pretty big; it even had a patio. If we’re comparing hospice care facilities, this was like the filet mignon of hospice.
I remember thinking that as I sat in the corner chair with a Capri Sun my stepmom brought in. It felt wrong — ironic — to be impressed. But grief does that. It makes you notice the patio furniture because you’d rather focus on that than the big, death-shaped elephant in the room.
With my musical opening that Thursday, rehearsals went from the moment school ended to seven or eight at night. School began at seven in the morning, so I could only make time to visit my grandpa for about an hour in the middle of the school day.
My high school allowed me to leave the campus after fifth period, skip lunch and free period, and return close to the start of sixth period. This exceptional kindness made me fall in love with my high school all over again. They gave me extra time with my grandpa, which I will never forget.
It was logistically challenging, but most of all, my emotions were utterly scrambled. I left school, where people treated me like I was the most fragile object in a room. I entered the hospice facility, where I was the least of anyone’s concerns in comparison to the inevitable circumstances on the ever-nearing horizon. All to go back to school and act like I was fine.
I held myself together relatively well.
In my mind, I had to. I convinced myself that others needed this time to be upset far more than I did. They were losing their brother, their father, their husband — I was just the granddaughter who was around only half the time. The last thing I needed to do was add to the heavy atmosphere, right?
So, I tried to create a sense of normalcy in this hospice center. I’d talk about my hatred for chemistry, show off photos from my soon-to-open musical, and I knew when to excuse myself when the air needed to be heavy.
Family from near and far came to visit. Some even told me how proud they were of my maturity. It felt good to hear, but it was a reminder that I had to stay mature; I had to stay level-headed.
I was doing fine, and then cracks started to show. Never in front of my family, at least not that I can remember.
During one rehearsal, I absolutely flubbed a line — massively. Complete miss. I’d never done that before, yet there I was. The show was supposed to open the next day, and I had flubbed the one, singular, stupid line I had. Who does that?
It felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was like the dam holding every emotion I’d tried to suppress was about to burst. I wouldn’t let it happen on stage, no. That’d be even more mortifying than forgetting my line.
I went backstage after that scene, sitting on a bench in the dark.
One of my friends must’ve seen the distress on my face through the ghost light and asked, “Dude, are you okay?”
It was no use. That one sentence shattered the facade I’d been trying to keep up. I was crying silent, ugly tears into Prince Charming’s stupid, frilly costume. More friends, some people I hardly even spoke to, came over. I didn’t deny any comfort. I needed it, and I was finally letting myself accept how much I needed it.
Then, one of my friends hugged me with a little too much velocity and sent my head into the black concrete block wall behind us. It made me laugh, which made me stop crying.
I pulled myself together and finished that rehearsal. Nobody mentioned my emotional outburst to our director, and my director never brought up my line flub.
My situation was understood silently, allowing me some sense of dignity. The last thing I wanted was pity, although the next time I cried, it was entirely pitiful.
It was the day after Cinderella closed. My adrenaline, which had gotten me through the past week, was shot. I hosted the cast party the evening before, which was exhausting. I had a rough chemistry quiz, and my grandpa was dying. It was a bad day all around.
I wanted McDonald’s.
It was one of my grandpa’s favorite restaurants, and I figured a 6-piece chicken nugget meal with a Hi-C, fries, and ranch for dipping could make the day less terrible. So I got it.
I ordered my food, pulled into a parking spot, and opened the bag.
There was no ranch.
That was my last straw. Something in me snapped. Immediately. I was now fully bawling in the McDonald’s parking lot — over ranch.
It wasn’t about the ranch. Or maybe it was. It was about everything.
Other days weren’t filled with hysterical outbursts; they were just quiet. Sometimes peaceful, sometimes somber.
One afternoon, I sat by the window in his room while he slept. The sun was hitting the patio just right, like it was trying too hard to make the moment beautiful. I think I resented the sun a little for that.
I showed him photos from my musical. He called me his Princess Tay. I wasn’t playing Cinderella; I was cast in the much lesser role of Smaller Woman, but he saw me as his princess anyway. Then he fell asleep.
I was rubbing his feet with my father. I hated feet, but I loved my grandpa. I would do anything I could for him to make him comfortable and happier, and I’d give anything to rub his feet again.
Some days, he slept through our entire visit. I didn’t mind. I’d just hold his hand and try to memorize how each of his fingerprints felt against my skin.
The day before he went, I sat with him. He’d been moved back into his and my nonni’s home. We were sitting silently when he opened his eyes to look at me and held my hand. He told me that he was ready.
I remember the way I felt my blood run cold and my heart fall into my stomach. His eyes shut again, and I looked away. My eyes looked up at the drawings and cards the younger family members had made, all taped to the big glass mirror on the wall:
“I hope you get better, grandpa to marrow.”
“I hope I can visit you tomorrow.”
“Get better soon!!!”
I tore my eyes away from them. I formed the only response I could think of, “I know. I love you.”
He was sleeping, but I really hope he heard that.
Then it happened.
The next day, my stepmother woke me up. “Tay, don’t get ready for school. I’m going to Nonni’s. Watch your brothers until Nana gets here. Something happened with Grandpa.”
I nodded. I knew what had happened.
My nana brought donuts over. My stepmom told me what happened. “Grandpa went to heaven today,” she said. “It was so peaceful. Your dad was there with Nonni.”
I felt myself cry. She hugged me tightly.
“He loved you so much,” she said.
That day didn’t feel real. I kept waiting for a phone call, a laugh from the next room, some sign that this wasn’t really it. But none came.
In a way, I guess I had already grieved him, but now he was actually gone.
We went to his and my Nonni’s house. I fed ducks at the pond he used to take me to. It was a day when the mood was equally composed of reminiscing and failing to hold it together.
I hugged my Nonni a lot that day. I needed it, she needed it far more. And we needed each other.
The funeral came and went. It was my first time at a funeral. The black dress made my tackily bleached blonde hair stand out even more. Part of me is still so upset that the last time my grandpa saw me, I had that hay on my head. Never again.
I felt almost out of body the entirety of that day. I just wanted it to be over. I hated seeing my family cry, and I hated them seeing me cry just as much. I wanted the grief to be done.
I still feel it — the grief.
One of the most surprising parts of losing someone is how it sneaks up on you just when you think you’re past it. The last time I heard “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” playing over the speakers at Disney World, I cried in the Thunder Mountain ride queue.
He was the kindest man I’ve ever known.
I never did manage to memorize the shape of his fingerprints, but I’ll always remember his smile. The way his blue-green eyes would crinkle at the corners. And when I picture that, I find my own eyes crinkling, too.
Now, on April 6, I let the sun hit my face. I listen to the birds. I let myself smile.
Not because it doesn’t hurt anymore, it does. But because he’s still here, in a way. In every crinkle of my eyes.