Today marks one month since my grandmother suddenly passed away and, coincidentally, one month since I started the blog again.
The Lord’s timing is a funny thing. If you had told me this time one month ago as I was making the last post that my Nana would no longer be earthside, I never would have believed you. But that’s the strange part of it all. You see, Nana loved my writing. She often asked me whenever we were together why I didn’t post on the blog anymore and she missed reading what I had to say. If I weren’t so sad, I would laugh at how God knew one of the best ways to honor her life would be to get back into writing.
My heart feels so very heavy and so many little things remind me of her. For instance, Crohn’s Disease commercials make me emotional. She fought a severe stage bravely for over 50 years. I have officially become the girl that cries at advertisements now – yay me (that was a joke, it’s ok to laugh). One of my students came out of the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper coming out of their pants the other day and it made me sad because Nana would have absolutely loved hearing about it. She would’ve laughed and laughed. My teaching horror stories were her favorite.
I’ve learned new things about my Nana over this past month. I didn’t know she had been told at one point that she was not expected to live past 50 (she made it 25 whole extra years!). We found a speeding ticket from 2006 that not even my grandfather new she had gotten (she was out here lying to us about her “perfect driving record” – rude). I’ve also learned other, more personal things.
I’ve learned new things about myself over this past month too. Grief is confusing. I’ll be fine one minute and sad the next. A thousand “what-ifs” are jumbling around through my brain at any given moment. Some days I’m full of regrets for what I didn’t do, other days I’m full of regrets for what I did do. There are times when I feel guilty for being happy for a little while, even though that’s exactly what Nana would’ve wanted me to be.
I think about her a lot. I think about how much she loved me, how proud of me she was, and how she would be so happy I finally booked the big birthday trip I always talked about. She would be so happy that I’m traveling to Ireland in 10 days and even happier that I didn’t cancel it (even though, if I’m being honest, I’ve thought about doing so many times this month because joy at a time like this feels wrong).
I’ve replayed her last week of life over and over again. The last text I sent her was pictures of me at a friend’s bridal shower. A bridal shower she was planning to be at had she not fallen. I think about how the doctors said she was doing well and might even be able to go the family reunion in a couple of weeks. I remember the pictures Dad showed me of how banged up and purple she was. I hate that was how he and my Paw saw her last. I think about how my brother and I were at a friend’s house watching a movie while her life was hanging in the balance, completely unaware of how our lives were getting ready to change. Looking back, our blissful ignorance feels wrong. I hate that the rest of us didn’t know our last Christmas would be the last time we were all together.
I’ll never forget receiving the phone call that she was gone. When you have a family member with a chronic illness (or, in our case, many chronic illnesses), there’s always a part of you which knows a call could be around the corner. I’ve lived my entire life, all 25 years, with the understanding that earthly life is finite and Nana’s was certainly no exception. I imagined I’d be a little more prepared for the call when it finally came, but the shock completely overtook me. I haven’t been the same since that night and I don’t know that I ever will be again. Sure, I put on a smile and can pretend with the best of them, but the truth is, I’m still hurting.
Despite it all, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for all the trips we took. I’m thankful for my diligence in taking photos and videos of Nana. I’m thankful she gave me her love of hosting other people. I’m thankful that she never made me question her love for me, although our relationship could be complicated at times. I’m thankful she saw in me a talent for teaching that I struggled to see for myself. I’m thankful for her fighter spirit. She taught me to never complain through suffering and as someone who now lives with a chronic illness herself, I carry that mindset with me. She told me once that it could always be worse. She wouldn’t complain about her pain because she had so much that other people didn’t.
Nana, I miss you. I love you. It fills me with deep sorrow to think of all you’ll miss, but it brings me great joy to know you you’re finally at rest and free from pain. This isn’t goodbye. I’ll see you later, Nana. ❤️
