Devour It All

My grandma is nearing the end of her [very long] life. We were never especially close, so for me seeing her body slowly dying is strangely humbling and grounding. What I mean is: it gave me some perspective on life, to be watching hers end. It brought some reflection and oddly gave me hope about my own life. If I were to have 60+ more years of it, what would I want that time to be about?

My grandma had always been someone who liked what she liked, wanted what she wanted, and was very put together — things I’ve not easily done in my life thus far. But she’ll also be remembered for being supportive, kind, and loving — things I value and aim my life toward. It stirred something in me, sitting with her while her state is so different than I’ve ever known her, and giving her the love and kindness I can right now. I haven’t even fully put my finger on it, but I left feeling a sort of poignancy. She lived this interesting, at times exciting, and certainly rich life, though not without its heavy burdens. And all of that is hers. 

Maybe what it brought to the surface in me is my philosophy on what life is about and that is two things: our experience and the relationships we have, where we make an impact. Those that grieve are proof of the latter, but so very much unknown is the former. 

My grandpa had left impressions on my life, pleasant and silly little reminders of him to glimmer in the mundane moments – "coffee doesn't taste good unless you spill a little" and the whimsy of defying physics by snagging your belt loop on a door handle. In spite of being madly in love with each other until he died, my grandma went about life so differently, so what reminds me of her is a bit different. She loved sweets, but was unfortunately always under the pressure of being a woman and measuring her choices. At family gatherings, it was always the brownie. She’d shyly have half of one…and always come back for the second half. And so I always think of her when I have a brownie, I say to myself “Eat the whole thing.”

In a way, that’s the lesson I take from her loving what she loved and wanting what she wanted: in life, devour it all. 

It Started in June

The body really does remember what we ourselves forget…

Tuesday, right away and all day I was anxious in this certain, specific way that usually means there’s a pent-up emotion that needs to come out. It’s frankly a bit miserable because I just have to ride it out until it releases. Usually it’s not something that’s in the forefront of my mind, instead a sneak attack of some repeat feeling that’s snowballed. 

I went to bed with it still churning, not letting my mind turn off to sleep. Thoughts of last summer came to mind, first memories that were good, then ways I felt so alone. But then intermixed was this grief from several summers ago. 

I recalled sharply how shaken I was. I co-opted my parents on a North Shore trip for a change of scenery. That night, I did my best to sob quietly on the floor on the mattress from the roll away bed we had to order to the hotel room. I was scared to be alone with such immense pain, it felt like it was swallowing me. 

That grief was so deep it took years to feel some semblance of normalcy. So intense it still reemerges with pieces I haven’t sat with, like the heaviness of that night on that mattress on the floor. So intense because I had trusted someone so much who utterly shocked me. Here and there I’ve been remembering the crazy-making of that time. How not myself I was, trying so hard to make sense of a thing that just wouldn’t make sense. 

A thing that all started in late June, several summers ago. And my body remembered before I could.