You will drift apart, it’s true, but you will be out in the open, part of everything alive again.” This quote, by Phillip Pullman, piqued my thoughts during one of the most difficult times in my life. But, it also brought me comfort.
Growing up, I did not have a lot of experience with death. Or coming to terms with death. Or anything related to death. My first real experience with it was when I was eighteen years old. Losing a friend at the age of fresh freedom made something change in the way I perceived things, though it did not completely shift my perspective of life. These feelings of loss and confusion were new to me. I'd either been steered away from them growing up or I was too young to really understand. At eighteen, was I lucky to have never been exposed to something as traumatic as this?
My next experience came from losing my grandmother shortly after I turned twenty. I had been extremely lucky with having both sets of my grandparents active in my life during my first two decades, constantly cheering me on in my academics, sports, theater plays, whatever I chose to do. I never really thought about what life would be like without them there, because, well, they always had been.
My grandma always had been.
Even when I moved to another state, she made sure to play an important role in my life, never missing a photo op for a high school dance or a Saturday morning soccer game at the expense of 300 miles of highway.
Two weeks ago, I was different. As cliche as that sounds, it couldn’t be any more true. Losing a grandparent takes a toll and leaves behind a voided space. Fourteen days ago, I didn’t realize how big this space was. It was filled with everyday conversation and annoyance from hearing the Golden Girls theme song playing late into the night because she couldn’t sleep. It was filled with dreams of hugging me one last time before sending me 4000 miles across the ocean for school, watching me walk across the stage when I graduate college. It was filled with seeing me walk down the aisle, playing with her great-grandchildren, God knows how many years down the road, because it was also filled with hope for the future.
Losing a grandparent changes you because you must learn to deal with this space. And though I will, it may take some time. She will still see me walk across the stage, she will still see me walk down the aisle, and she will get to watch over her great-grandchildren, just from a higher view.
She will experience my adventures in Europe, just with a view from the passenger seat, a shoulder guardian angel. The beautiful views at fingertip length in lieu of them being a picture in her mind as I try my hardest to explain the breathtaking view over a long-distance phone call.
It changes your life because you learn to move on, without them. Realizing that it was their time, and now it is your time to be the person they played such a role in crafting.
Losing a grandparent, especially one who was so close, changes you. It teaches you to realize how important time with your family is. How important that last little “I love you” before bed or before you leave for work in the morning is. It taught me to not take anything for granted, to enjoy the little things.
So now, being free and out in the open, a part of everything alive again may not be such a bad thing. The memories are golden and those I do get to keep.
