A Hurt Unlike Any Other

My grandmother Bertha was one of the most important people in my life. There wasn’t one step I took through life where she wasn’t right there beside me. Right there beside us all. She was the hand we had to hold, and the rock we didn’t deserve. While she had her flaws, as we all do, she was perfect in all of our eyes. With all of her roughness, her trauma, and her radiance, she was perfect.

The thing about loss that no one ever speaks about is when your world halts abruptly, and the world at large continues to turn without you.

I remember thinking: Why is Target still open? Why can everyone else laugh right now? Why isn’t anyone else empty inside? My grandmother just died. How could no one else feel that loss of such vibrant energy in the universe? Why couldn’t anyone else feel the powerful waves of my mother’s sobs as they echoed through my very soul?

No one talks about it.

That hand that once held mine couldn’t be there for when I came out, or when I got into my dream school, or when I fell in love for the first time, or when I felt the greatest sadness I had ever felt, or even the greatest happiness. It was gone.

It was the first time I ever felt grief. I couldn’t make out what exactly that feeling was. It was a hurt that wasn’t like any other. Scraping my knee, I could deal with that. Getting bullied was a piece of cake. Why was this so different?

It took me 9 years to figure out what that difference was. It was when I was watching an ad for Folgers coffee. For some reason my grandmother really loved Folgers commercials and the jingle. Seeing her watching these commercials and singing along with it were some of the few moments I saw her have a little sliver of fun. The only little chunk of time she allowed herself. For a split second after seeing this new ad I thought to myself: I need to call grandma and ask if she saw the new commercial. Simultaneously I was taking out my phone to call her. Then I remembered. Then I experienced that fresh rush of grief flood over me, just as strong as the very first time.

Grief in the wake of the loss of a loved one, in essence, is the wounding (betrayal even) of one’s great love for that person. It’s the torrent of such strong emotion with nothing there to catch it; like a great river with no ocean to meet. You feel betrayed by the person that left you, and guilt for feeling betrayed.

I have all this love that is uniquely for this one person, and now this person is not tangibly here to receive it. It’s as jarring as stepping out into freezing winds after being in your warm home all day. It puts your body on edge like something bad is gonna happen, but on a never ending loop because the bad thing has already happened without the catharsis of the startle. It makes you feel helpless.

There’s this love that will live on forever, but you can’t give it to them, and never create new love with that person again.

But now what?

Now that I know what it is, how do I deal with it? They say that time heals all wounds, but after wounds heal, there are scars left in their wake. Those scars will always be there... but that doesn't mean you can't still find peace for yourself.

The original vessel for our love might be gone, but we decided to create a new container: reminiscing. The thing that helps my family and I the most is talking about my grandmother, and the memories we have of her. Reflecting on the good times, retrospecting on the not-so-good situations; we leave nothing out. We remember her in full. It opens up the possibility for the positive catharsis of pouring out our love and fondness; one that we were not initially allowed.

It's beautiful, and it's an amazing feeling.

To be honest, you never fully get over it. But the more you allow yourself that healthy release, it gets easier to breathe. It gets easier, not to move on from, but to move forward with the memory of your loved one and your grief. You find a way to stop just watching the world continue turning around you, and to start turning with it again.