Notes on Grief

July 10, 2022

Death is a lot to handle. Or maybe grief is. Or maybe it's both. Everyone talks about the finality of death, the absence of a person, of their presence. And that's all true, but I never knew what death looked like before and now I do. I was 23 years old when my grandma died. She was alive about 20 minutes before. That last time I saw her. Alive, breathing, talking about the next day. I can't get these facts out of my mind. The suddenness, the unexpectedness. I hugged her and told her I'd see her tomorrow. I miss her.

Her body was so still, but moved easily when you touched her, when my mom was trying to get her to wake up. Heavy and weightless at the same time. Her lips were purple and her eyes were wide open. Mom says she looked peaceful. But she looked shocked to me. Shocked and dead. Like her breath had suddenly run away, left her and then never came back. She was breathing until she wasn't. She didn't look like grandma completely. It was like her essence had left her. What made her her and what made her look alive had gone away, run away with her breath.

Sometimes I feel afraid. I'm scared she died worried. I scared she felt alone, that she felt scared. Sometimes I think maybe it would have been better if I had just gone to check on her. Maybe she could of died her my arms or at least next to me and I could have told her I'm here, it's okay. But then I think, could I have handled that? And then it's okay that it happened the way it did, kind of, I guess. I guess I just miss her. I wonder what was going though her head. I looked in her desk. I guess I'm looking for a sign or something. I want to find a hidden letter or a note, something that looks like goodbye. I don't know why, maybe because I think it will make her being gone more bearable. Something to hold on to of hers. I love to go in her room and smell her clothes...but one day they aren't going to smell like her anymore. And her room isn't going to be arranged that way and it's not going to be her room anymore. I can hear her voice in my head. At least I have the recordings so I won't be able to forget.

For those first days after, I had so much anxiety. Worried about her last few moments. It creeps up again sometimes, but now I just miss her. The people came and took her body away that night and it feels like she's gone on a trip. It's a weird feeling because I know she's dead.

I like petting her cat, even though she scratched me the other day. Grandma loved Katy. I can her her calling "Come here Katy-girl" in my head. It's sweet. Katy has dandruff. I've tried to brush her everyday since, but I don't think it's helping. I wonder who will take her. I don't want to give her to just some random person though.

The first morning of her passing was the weirdest and most horrible day. That whole day went by sped up. Hours melted into each other. It felt strange how fast the day seemed to go by. We spent the day sitting and crying. Siting in bed, sitting on the couch, sitting on the floor of her room. Laying on her bed. Sitting at the table eating Jersey Mike's. I remember feeling so awkward sitting at the table eating. That I am here, having a meal, doing something so mundane. The way that, without my permission, life goes on. Minutes turn into hours and hours turn into days.  

The other day I sat where she usually sits when she comes out to visit. It's sad she's not going to sit there anymore. When I wake up I have to remember she's gone. But sometimes when I'm in between the moment of being asleep and being awake, I feel a split experience. I feel peace when I'm asleep, but it's different in waking, in the realization of "Grandma's not here among". I never knew what "not alive" meant until now. It's very sad.

I've prayed that she will visit me in my dreams, but she hasn't. I want to talk with her. I want to say goodbye. I want her to tell me she's okay.