When my uncle died, I couldn't cry. Not even as we packed up to head over to my grandparents' house nor when we arrived, and the whole family burst into tears. The adults thought it was because there wasn't that strong of a shared memory. I personally thought it was because I was in shock.
To be honest, I don't think I felt anything really. Sadness, anger, shock, or whatever emotion you are supposed to feel when you lose a family member felt so distant to me. The strongest feeling was fear: fear to go into his house, to organize his belongings, to even think about his death.
For the two weeks that I spent with my family, who expressively mourned, I could see how different my reaction was. I was scared that I didn't feel and that the people around me would notice that lack of emotion. I would blame it on this being the first death that I've experienced and I feel guilty because there was a time that I was once close with my uncle.
Once break ended, I returned to school and just like that I moved on. I didn't talk about it to anyone, especially because I didn't know how to bring it up. A month later, my sleep schedule started to change. I started having dreams, ones that I couldn't remember when I woke up but didn't feel that pleasant. I didn't like going outside because I would constantly feel nervous with stomach aches. I noticed that I couldn't write anymore, from papers to personal essays (and Odyssey articles), a slump you might say.
But, with midterms and finals, I just had to manage. Eventually, it got warmer, and summer came.
Upon arriving home, my health crashed. I was sick for a week, with lots of prescribed medicine. Then, I had to get a surgery for my ankle. As a result, for a month I was forced indoors with lots of painkillers and an exhausted body. With medicine, deep sleep, and regular visits to the hospital, I slowly recovered.
On the other side of the world, my grandfather was fighting time. Ever since his surgery during spring, his health slowly degenerated and especially with the addition of strong antibiotics, it was a miracle that he survived those months. His last two weeks became three, then a month, and eventually until June.
For a while, I've been drafting this article. I'm not sure what I wanted to gain from writing about it. I think it's me trying to confess what I wanted to hide. I don't like sharing my vulnerabilities or my fears, especially with those who are close to me. I think I even hide it from myself by not defining what those really are. On the other hand, I seem to only recover by sharing and talking about it. A true dilemma really.
Honestly, my situation is similar to last winter. I seem to be following the same route as last time. The dreams, stomach aches, and slumps have returned. Like last time, I couldn't tell anyone about the death and what followed. What got worse is that now I'm not surrounded by people 24/7. I don't have the classmates from mandatory lectures and exams. I don't have my roommates that never seem to be gone at the same time. I don't have the shared spaces that I had before when I was at school. I think that's why I miss New York: the endless noise, constant movement, and the buzz of life.
Maybe one day I can write about how those deaths changed me, or why they didn't. But for now, I just wanted to share to whoever might be reading. I don't think people are meant to grieve alone. Instead, it is a process that needs to be shared. I'm not ready to do that yet, but this is my first step forward.
To the strangers who are reading, thank you for sharing my grief.
And to my uncle and my grandpa... I'm sorry that I was too scared to say "I love you."
