I got the call this morning from my dad. It wasn't one of those times where I knew what was going to happen, or got a bad vibe when I saw he was calling. I wasn't expecting this news at all.
I didn't cry immediately; it took a few preemptive moments for me to process the news. My husband woke up to the call, and was quick to comfort me, despite my hesitation to express my grief.
The tears eventually spilled over the barriers of my eyes and fell as I fought to keep them in while I processed the facts, and questioned the reality of the situation. I tried to comfort myself with overused cliches about her passing, but they didn't calm the waves of emotion I was experiencing.
Instead, I desperately tried to remember the last time I spoke to her. Hugged her. And the frustrating truth emerged -- three and seven years, respectively. Three tremendously eventful years of my life had gone by since I last conversed with her. Seven years ago was the last time I saw her in person, hugged her, took photos with her. These devastating numbers have stuck with me today.
These past seven years without her have been difficult. Without exposing all of my family history, my grandmother was a victim of alcoholism, mental illness, and a plethora of medical issues. A couple of people who I refuse to acknowledge as family, despite their blood relation, took advantage of her, and took her from me.
For the first half of my life, my grandma was the only grandparent I had regularly involved in my life. She visited every summer, spent hours with my sister and I putting on lipstick and her jewelry. I could count on a phone call from her on every holiday, and a birthday card with a letter inside annually. Despite the distance, my grandma made extreme efforts to show and demonstrate her love and affection for my siblings and I.
The last time I spoke to her was when I told her that I was engaged, and I still remember how excited she was. I can still hear her laughter and her deeply set Fargo dialect. I remember the sadness I felt when she said she couldn't travel to my wedding.
Months went by and I remember the frustration I felt when her illness got the better of her and she refused to speak to us. I sent her save-the-dates and wedding invitations in the hopes that she'd come back to us.
My wedding came and went, and she no longer remembered us.
It wasn't until later this past year that she felt compelled to speak to us again. But, because of her illness, she didn't have much memory. She only spoke to my dad.
Last I heard, she remembered that I was married and asked if T and I had kids yet.
I've been sick to my stomach all day, torn about how to grieve, questioning my pain, wondering if I even had a right to grieve due to our lack of contact. She is my first loss and I feel deeply lost. I found my childhood jewelry box, and in it was a gold ring with a pink tourmaline gemstone that she had given me when I was young. I keep staring at it, hoping that it will bring me some sort of peace.
I hope that she remembered us all when she died. I hope she was sober in her final moments. I hope she passed quickly without fear or worry or pain. I truly hope that she is resting peacefully and that wherever she is now, she is healthy and vital and experiencing the unrelenting happiness she deserves. But most of all, I hope she knows how valued and loved she is, despite the things that kept us apart.
Goodbye, Grandma.
