A Taste of Loss
The day I learned what grief is.
November 2021
Right after Thanksgiving, my 93-year-old grandmother passed away. She was my last living grandparent and we were extremely close. I loved and admired her with all my heart. She was warm, kind, generous, funny, loving and beloved. She had a unique way of making sure you knew you were loved, even after you had said or done something unsavory. Her ability to forgive was extraordinary. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body and always wanted those around her to be happy, especially her family.
Although she had been on the decline for awhile and her passing was not a total surprise, nothing ever prepares you for loss; I often still reach for my phone to call her. Sometimes, I randomly burst into tears because I miss her so much I can physically feel it. She lived far from us, and we had just been to visit her before she passed. My family didn’t return in-person for the funeral, but it was streamed and we watched online. Something like 50-75 people attended; apparently it became a “standing room only” event. I wrote the eulogy and while I’m uncomfortable saying I’m proud of a piece with such sad purpose (I don’t subscribe to the “celebrating life” ideal when people pass. I love my people and I want them near me, with me, forever! Selfish?) I’m proud of it in the sense that I truly believe it captured who my grandmother was. I like to think she laughed when she heard it, and probably said something like, “G-d bless you, sweetheart, I love you.” That was how she always signed off our calls.
I unwittingly saved her voicemails from at least seven years ago. I delete most voicemails without listening to them, but for some reason, I always kept hers. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to replay them, but I’m strangely comforted knowing I can hear her voice if I want to. I am certain she hears mine when I pray or speak aloud to her, tell her how much I love and miss her.
Hours after she passed, another tragedy struck. One of our dogs wound up in the vet ER. This dog was my “firstborn” – my furry little everything. My husband rescued him in Virginia at college, and he really became my dog when we moved in together. He was an exceptional family member, soulful, understanding, the epitome of unconditional love. I took him everywhere with me: the grocery store, shopping, restaurants, boats, hotels. He walked down the aisle at our wedding. I treated him like a human and was mercilessly teased (and remain unapologetic). But he had been through a lot in 2020 with some freak medical issues, and whatever he was battling this time – we still aren’t quite sure – he simply couldn’t fight off. He was 12 and I know we gave him the best, most fulfilling life any dog could wish for and he would agree. I just always expected he’d go on his own time, peacefully, with us. Losing him how we did was traumatic. He deserved so much better than the stark lights of a bare clinic, hooked up to IVs, sedated. We were eventually forced to make the unfathomable decision to let him go. I hyperventilated, wrought with pain from the news of my grandmother hours earlier, in disbelief that the universe could be so cruel to take two loves of my life in such rapid succession. My husband went to be with him in the ER, but in my hysteria, I simply couldn’t. I keep his collar on my dresser and often tell him how much I love and miss him, too, and hope he isn’t upset with me for not being there at the bitter, bitter end.
Until now, I was truly blessed in life to not have experienced loss like some of my friends. My grandfather passed in 2012 which was terrible, though also not entirely unexpected. My great-grandmother passed in 1997 and while I was very close with her, my young age (11) and underdeveloped emotions shielded me in a way from the painfully numbing realization that I would never see or be with her again. She passed at home and the glimpse I got of the coroner removing a stretcher with a black bag from the house is forever seared in my mind. I wasn't as close with my paternal grandparents and though I loved them, our relationships were very different, especially given that my parents were divorced. We saw my dad's parents much less frequently.
I've wondered if this is the universe's way of catching up with me. I know it sounds cynical. But I just haven't been able to wrap my around the cruelty that was November 27, 2021. In the middle of the holiday season, nonetheless - I love the holidays, just as my mom does. My grandma's birthday was Christmas Day and for years, we always had a big dinner celebration at her house... though we're Jewish, we celebrated Hanukkah on Christmas Day when the whole family could be together. My grandma and I baked peanut blossoms every season, using her “vintage” avocado-colored mixer. I loved watching her open gifts. I loved putting up my dog's stocking, squeaky toys peeking out the top.
Little did I know, the agony that resulted from that one horrible day was just a taste of more unexpected loss to come.
