Our lives are full of goodbyes. It's a sad fact that eventually we all will accept. When we say goodbye, we are essentially ending a chapter of our lives. I'm not talking about the "I just have to run to the store really quickly," goodbyes, but rather the heart-wrenching, stomach-in-knots, cry-about-it-every-night kind of goodbyes. The kind of goodbyes where you don't have a reassurance that you'll get to say "hello," again.
I recently found a bunch of pictures of my sister, father, and I with my grandfather (dad's dad). I had never seen them before and it kind of threw my whole perspective out of whack. He passed away almost 15 years ago, when I was just five years old. I have vague memories of him but the ones I do have, he was a completely different person.
In my memories, he was a fun, happy old man. We would go visit him in the nursing home and I would play 'Barrel of Monkeys' with him. Remember that game? You used a plastic monkey to try and pick up the other monkeys? We played that every visit. My mom would bring him shoe fly pie. But seeing the pictures, I was brought back into reality.
He was sick — that much I knew — but I didn't know how badly. When he passed away, I mourned and I moved on with my life. But now, looking back on it, I never had a proper goodbye. One day he was here, and the next day he was gone. At the time, I didn't realize how big of a deal that was.
My grandmother (mom's mom) would watch my older sister, my cousins, and I all the time. She was sick as well but I remember that a bit more. My older sister would watch soap operas with her; we were all aware to not get her mad or she would get the "wooden spoon." She never actually did anything with it, but I think the fact that she had it in her possession scared us more than anything. When she passed, I was there. I was in the other room.
I knew what was happening, but I don't think I said my proper goodbye then either. She passed away in 2000. I was four years old. The hardest parts came years later.
It came when I was going into my sophomore year of college and having no reassurance that I was doing the right thing. Professors, friends and other family members had no problem telling me that they thought I would be successful or keeping me on the right path. But that wasn't the reassurance I wanted.
I wanted to know that my grandparents would be proud. That if they were still with me, they would be cheering me on and supporting me. Because they loved me, I know they would. But I wondered if they thought I'd be better doing something else. I wondered if they would read what I write. I wondered if they would like my friends, my school, my job, etc.
I try my best to tell the people I love how I feel about them now — in this moment. It's cliché but the reason is because tomorrow is never guaranteed. I try my best to get their advice and to hear their feedback. Because in 15 or 16 years, I don't want to have these same questions.
The hardest parts of losing my grandparents weren't the wakes or funerals. The hardest part wasn't having to adjust to saying "was," instead of "is." The hardest part wasn't remembering that they were gone. The hardest part comes when you least expect it.
I haven't lost too many people in my life. (Thank God.) But I have lost friends and I have lost family. They say that time helps and sometimes that is true. I can go years without feeling the heartbreak of grief; but it always comes back. It's not a steady stream of missing someone but waves that have no pattern. They come and they go. Sometimes they're just enough to shed a tear or share a memory; sometimes, they're enough to make you break down.
When that happens, don't run away from it. Don't push it down because the next time a wave like that comes — it'll be a tsunami. You have to face it head on. Then you continue on with your life and wait for the next one.
