“Spend every moment you can with them and don’t complain, you don’t know when it’s the last time you will see them,” my dad said every time I tried to avoid going to Saturday lunch at my grandparents’ house.
Although I loved my grandparents, I threw the same ridiculous temper tantrum every week because visiting their house wasn’t my younger self’s ideal weekend plan. Saturday lunches at their house have been a family tradition my whole life.
When I inevitably ended up there, my grandpa Dario always distracted me from my initial disinterest in visiting. He would take me and my cousins out for a drive in his old car while telling stories about his countryside childhood, something we never got tired of.
He was always my most fun family member. While my cousins excluded me from outdoor activities just because I was a girl, my grandpa taught me how to start a fire, fly a kite and take care of my bike. He helped me overcome my fear of public speaking and taught me a poem to learn proper word pronunciation.
When I was 7 years old, my dad’s warning rang truer than ever.
My grandad had a stroke. He survived, but he was never the man he used to be. He couldn’t speak, walk or do anything else without assistance.
Everyone in my family was distraught. My grandpa used to be an active man who went cycling in the morning and tango dancing at night, then suddenly, he was stuck in a hospital bed unable to move or talk.
I would go to his house every week to help him with physical therapy. I didn’t complain about visiting my grandparents anymore.
Against all odds, my grandpa lived for another 8 years until he died when I was 15. His health continuously deteriorated and he slowly — and painfully — faded away. He was in a lot of pain due to an accumulation of medical issues he developed throughout the years.
I was there during his final days, putting ice cubes on his lips and making sure he was comfortable. It was hard seeing him in excruciating pain and being unable to help much.
When my grandpa finally passed, I thought I wouldn’t feel too sad because he had been sick for so long and I knew deep down it was for the best. However, grief snuck up on me without warning.
I was angry. For most of my life, my grandad was stuck in bed, unable to do what he wanted, and unable to do typical grandfather-granddaughter activities with me. I wanted to dance with him at my quinceañera, go to the park like we used to and hear his advice again.
People told me he loved me, that I was his pride and joy as his only granddaughter, but the only thing I could think about was that I didn’t feel his love at that moment. The only thing I felt was pain and a hole in the middle of my heart swallowing all joy and happiness from my body.
I hated telling people he was dead, admitting to others that my favorite — and only — grandpa was gone. I felt like my love was a waste: I couldn’t express my love to him anymore so I thought it was all lost and meaningless.
However, I thought about him every single day, and I was inevitably filled with love when I did. I started holding on to that feeling and slowly started understanding that just because I couldn’t see him or talk to him anymore, it didn’t mean all the love we shared was gone.
If our love had disappeared then I wouldn’t miss him, but I did, and talking about him wouldn’t hurt, but it did. The grief I was feeling was just a reminder of how deeply I loved.
I realized that I had a decision to make. I could waste my life being angry about a painful situation outside of my control or I could remember my granddad with love instead of the anger the situation caused me. If I decided to let go of the pain, I could remember all the good moments I had with my grandpa and keep his memory alive.
Yes, my grandad is dead, but I still love him just as much. I’ll always carry the moments we shared. Forgetting them would mean letting go of the last thing I have left of him.
I’m not a religious or spiritual person, but since I understood I can love my grandpa despite him being gone, I’ve felt closer to him and I know that in one way or another, he is always there.
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