I’ve never felt anything like this before, I thought.
You know? That feeling that your world is crumbling slowly, then all of sudden crashing faster than you could ever imagine? That feeling that you literally have a hole -- a huge, black, gaping hole -- in not only your stomach, but your heart. Your heart the most.
It’s not the feeling you get when you hear the initial news. It could be, but sometimes you feel a relief, for they may have suffered too long, and now you are content because they are at peace and not in agonizing pain anymore. It’s the feeling that creeps in slowly after you have a moment to breathe, that moment when the wake has come and gone, the funeral was held beautifully honoring your loved one, when the commotion has quietly subsided; it is the moment you finally have to yourself, to actually reflect on what has happened.
And this one thing that happened happens every single day. Statistically speaking, to 150,000 people every single day. People take their last breathe and close their eyes for the last time, while some don’t close them at all. Some choose this road, and many do not. Some are in the arms of loved ones, and some are in the arms of strangers. Some are tragic and unexpected, and some knew it was bound to happen and that their time to go towards that “white light” would come.
Die. They just die.
When my beautiful grandmother died, I felt at ease that she was finally at peace and done with her suffering. I thought I was fine. She had cancer and was 83 years old. She grew old with the love of her life, the one she met when she was just a young teen at a roller skating rink. She accomplished her goals of becoming an amazing mother of four, happily adopting her eldest and happily birthing her next three. She was the most incredible grandmother to her ten grandchildren and made an impact on every single person she ever met. She lived her life to the fullest, like every damn motivational sign says to do. But with one breath she left this earth on a hot, late August morning.
I thought I had time to accept the fact that she was going to leave -- leave this world, leave this family, and leave me. We found out a few months in advance. They said she had more time, but science is not always accurate, especially with life. Only after writing her my last letter that I addressed to her home (and of course, to Heaven), placing it gently in her baby blue casket, typing her speech for her funeral, speaking it confidently, crying at her grave, and starting to get into a routine at school did it hit me.
I’ve never felt anything like that before, I thought.
You know? That feeling that your world is crumbling slowly, then all of sudden crashing faster than you could ever imagine? That feeling that you literally have a hole, a huge, black, gaping hole in not only your stomach, but your heart. Your heart the most.
It’s the feeling you get when you lose someone you love.
Honestly, you just feel empty simply because you are; you are empty.
And slowly your glass that is half full becomes the glass that is half empty.
And you slowly drift to a darker place, a place you would prefer not to be.
And sometimes you think, holy crap! I hate the fact that when people die, you end up in a box in the ground or you have to burn to be condensed to ashes. I wish when you passed, you somehow disappeared slowly, vanished even, after your family members said their goodbyes. Because the thought that someone I love is in a box, in the ground, covered by dirt, is not how I like it to think of it. Yet, my friends, that is reality.
But after you go through that dark phase of death, you realize that this is how its been done for hundreds and hundreds of years. You lower your loved one in a casket (one of maybe their favorite color), put their most precious belongings in with them, and fresh dirt covers them. They are protected by Mother Nature herself. Nature created you and when you pass, you return back to her. Slowly new buds of grass grow, and you become a home for red lady bugs that bring luck, flowers that bring beauty, a place where life flows. And you realize that it’s normal. Normal to be in a solid casket and a safe place. Normal to be lowered into the earth, to be protected by all the living things around you.
Dying is inevitable. It is truly a part of nature. It is normal.
Soon you then realize that life does not stop for anyone, even if you are sad.
So just like everyone else, you put your pants on one leg at a time, put a fake smile on your face and do what you have to do.
Why?
Because that’s what you do. You move on.
People say that it’ll slowly get better. They repeat that cliché saying, “you’ll gradually get over it,” but that is far from the truth.
The truth?
Death.
Death changes absolutely everything in your life.
But time?
Time.
Time changes absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
Why?
Because I still sit in front of my laptop and write with that empty feeling. One that can never be filled. I still miss the way you talk, the way you laugh, your smile, the gentle hugs you gave, your hilarious sense of humor, your strong independence, your wonderful advice, and your kick butt attitude. I miss you. I miss you as much as I did the day you passed. I just absolutely miss you.
I still visit your grave every week and talk to you, as if you can actually hear me. I tell you about school, my friends, my problems, my goals, my accomplishments and my failures, what big things our family is about to witness, my beautiful niece I am about to become an aunt to, the new people that have helped me become who I am today, and everything in between.
I miss you as much as I did the day you passed. I just miss you. And I love you, and will forever continue to love you.
And this is life. We move on, but will forever miss our lost. And it is normal. As normal as it is, someone in this world loses someone else. 150,000 every single day.
But then I just remember, there is no shame in dying… is there?
