The worst part about the five stages of grief is that they’re not even stages, they’re states.
When my mom told me on November 2nd at around 11:40 pm that my grandma had passed away, it didn’t even feel real. I was half asleep, so I thought that surely, it was all a dream. How could my grandma be dead? So I kept going to sleep and waking up throughout the night, and I would start crying everytime I woke up and remembered.
And then we went to her house and surely she must have died, because her bed was empty and by the end of it all she couldn’t move, so her bed could only be empty if she had died. Hell, she couldn’t even speak. And then I get angry because every doctor told us that her throat and her vocal cords were fine, that she was choosing not to speak. I can’t remember her voice. I can’t remember her voice and I cannot figure out why she didn’t want to speak to us.
And then I start thinking if there was anything we could have done in the 16 years since her mother, my great grandmother, passed away. Maybe if we had been better kids, better grandkids, she wouldn’t have been so sad, she wouldn’t have deteriorated like that, she wouldn’t have stopped talking to us. Maybe she would have lasted longer.
So she’s dead, and we’re making sandwiches to take to the wake and I have barely eaten because I cannot stomach anything, not even my own grief. And we get to the chapel and I’m angry again because the staff are rude and insensitive and my grandma has just passed and I have been crying all night and all day and can’t you see it in my eyes?
And then I see her. And that’s not her. That can’t be her. She doesn’t look like that. My grandma’s not dead and I don’t know who this is in the coffin. And it cannot be her, it cannot be her, it cannot be her. But everyone is saying she is, and everyone is crying, so I guess it must be.
God, what do I do with my dad? He was a son too, that was her mother. People are calling him from work, and I keep getting emails as well, and the world doesn’t stop and I’m angry again because why can’t you all just leave us alone? Except if the world stops I’m going to fall down and never get back up.
Next to the grief is my guilt. I wasn’t a very good grandkid. I was always awkward and didn’t know how to speak to her most of the time, especially after she stopped talking. And I know it was because I was angry at her for having favorites. But I should have been better, I should have been the bigger person, I should have made an effort to know her better because now I can’t and I loved her still and she loved me anyways even if I wasn’t her favorite, and please, grandma, forgive me, god, forgive me.
Many hours pass and everyone tells me it was for the best because she was in so much pain and I know they are right. And my grandma is dead and that is okay, she lived many years and she was one of the strongest and bravest women I knew handling all 5 kids by herself because her husband died a little too soon. Do you think it was him who came to pick her up? Maybe it was her mother. I’d like to think it was both of them.
We sleep without rest and then it’s time for the mass in her honor and she must be dead because my dad is helping carry her coffin down to the altar and he is crying. My dad is crying and I don’t know what to do. And for a moment I feel comforted; for a moment I see the appeal of religion until the priest starts guilt tripping us because he’s heartbroken knowing many of us will not stand to do the communion and many of us don’t go to church every Sunday and fuck him. Fuck him. How dare he make this about him and his stupid church when my grandma is right there and she’s not coming back and my heart might be bleeding but my dad’s been completely hollowed out.
We’re running out of time. Before we can even think about it, we’re at the cemetery and we’re running out of time. All her kids except the oldest make a little speech. It’s a strange thing, I can tell you I’ve only seen my aunt (the oldest) cry three times in my entire life, and two have been in the past few days. And then we’re saying our last goodbyes, entrusted with a flower to throw onto her coffin after she’s lowered down.
And then I’m fucking angry again because her brother (the oldest, now that she’s gone) is making it about him again, and he may be hurting but so are all of us so why does he have to do this (and he also manages to insult just about every mother in the crowd, mind you). But it doesn’t matter because it’s time.
And I want to get on my knees and beg. Please God, give me a second chance with her. I will be good and I will not waste it and I will take care of her and I will get to know her properly this time and I will- But instead I say goodbye and throw my rose in after her and then it’s done. It’s over. Except it will never be over. My life, our lives, will forever be tilted a little to the left after this and I don’t know what to do.
I just… don’t know what to do.
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