I think that one of the most difficult parts of life is when you lose someone who is near and dear to you. The ultimate goodbye, death, is something that absolutely terrifies me. It always has. It's not even that I fear my own death: it's simply that I fear having to say goodbye to everyone in my life that matters to me.

As someone who suffers from depression, it's very easy for me to get wrapped up in being alone. If you're reading this and have experienced depression, you know that it can be a very isolating illness. You can be surrounded by a thousand people and still feel like you're completely alone. Sometimes I fear that when death has taken those closest to me, I'll slip into that world of total isolation.

I've been to several funerals in my life. I lost one distant cousin in the war, another distant cousin to a brain tumor, two great grandmothers to old age, a grandmother to liver failure, and a grandfather to several medical issues. Death is not a new concept for me. Each time I think it will be a little easier to handle - but it never is.

I've also lost several friends. There have been funerals that I was either unable to attend due to scheduling or a sheer inability to make myself face the casket. The first friend died due to a medical issue. The second died from suicide. It was the latter whose funeral I could not bring myself to attend. Looking back now, I wish I had. There's still an open wound that hasn't healed because I never really said goodbye.

I used to think that saying goodbye meant that I would never get to see these people again. That when that casket lid closed, the life they had was done and gone. Everyone back home was supposed to move on and only survive with the memories. For a long time, I believed that. When my grandmother died, I took it pretty hard. I didn't really know how to feel.

And then, last February, I lost my grandpa. He was the world to me. He and I were similar in so many ways, he loved theater and English. He loved playing board games and telling jokes. He loved playing tricks. And within one instant - he was gone. And I thought that my world was never going to be the same without him.

But the funny thing? I was wrong. I have to tell you, that funeral may have been the hardest funeral I have yet to attend. I still sob sometimes, inexplicably. I'll hear a song or have a passing memory and the waterworks just start up again. But then I always feel this overwhelming sense of comfort, as if my grandpa has wrapped his arms around me once again to tell me that everything is going to be okay.

When I attended mass last time I was home, the deacon gave a homily on heaven. He talked about moving on to a better world and having to leave our loved ones behind. I was taken aback for a second. I thought I must have heard wrong. But he continued to describe a world where I would no longer be surrounded by my loved ones. He said that those who have gone before me I would never see again. I started to imagine an afterlife with no daughter, no husband, no family. None of my friends who have left this Earth.

I have to tell you, I left church when mass ended, got in my car, and sobbed. How could God create a heaven where I'd never get to listen to my grandpa tell another corny joke? Or listen to my grandmother's distinctive laugh? How could I be sent to a place where I'd never see the love of my life or my daughter? I decided that I don't like that version of heaven. I refuse to believe that God would introduce us to these people and then take them away forever.

I still talk to those who have gone on. Mostly to my grandpa. I feel his presence as I drive to work each day - he always used to worry about the roads in the winter. I always feel his protective hugs as I travel along the highway. I still hear him sing when I go to mass at our family church in SIoux Falls. I still cry. But you know what I haven't done yet? I haven't really said goodbye. Just ta-ta for now.