5 Years to Grief

Well, it's been five years since "the day it all changed," the day I witnessed my Grandma die suddenly.  Every year at this time,  I'm a wreck.  Okay, let's be honest, for the first several years after, I was a wreck!  And each June 1st, I would mark this day by crying at home, becoming a blob of emotional wreckage, and sometimes writing a post about how much it affected me, about how shitty post traumatic stress disorder is, about how my whole life shifted with one afternoon...

This year, however, I haven't been upset about how she died.  In fact, I've worked really hard on the what/when/why/where part of the whole ordeal and can, to some extent, accept it.  This anniversary, I've still been a wreck, though, consumed with sadness about the loss of my grandmother.  A loss that feels like a horrible, crippling cavity in my chest, empty because she's no longer filling it up.  I know that pain is normal to feel after people die.  But this isn't the dull ache of a family member now gone yet always missed.  This is grief.  Minutes-after-it-happens, bone-shaking, wailing-to-the-universe grief.

Which is actually amazing to feel.

Let me explain.   See, I've spent the past five years feeling the trauma that came with how my grandma died and the part I played in it.  Feeling responsible.  Feeling guilt.  Feeling isolated.  And yes, feeling sad that my grandma wasn't here anymore, but those feelings were either so small compared to the nightmares and the guilt, or barely dwelled on because all thoughts of her led to images of that day...

And now?  Well, now I can see my Grandma's face.  Her deep wrinkles.  Her smile.  I can hear her full belly laugh.  And her rapping her knuckles on the mustard yellow formica island while her beloved songbird clock tweeted every hour on the (wrong) hour.  I can picture her gold stud earrings.  And her "old lady" t-shirts with embroidered flowers on them.  And her tweed slacks that always had to have deep pockets and usually mismatched her many pairs of socks.  I can taste her chili, which she always had supplies for in case one of us kids might drop by.  And her cornbread, made in the same perfectly seasoned skillet every time and still the best cornbread I have ever eaten.  I can smell her, a mixture of something uniquely-Grandma and Dior's Dune.  And I can feel her hugs.  And her unwavering support.  And her love, imperfect as she could be at expressing it.  I feel that love, for me and my dad and my grandpa and my sister and her brothers and my aunt and cousin... I can feel it so keenly now that it has almost erased all memories of that horrible, horrible day.  Almost.

Sure, she wasn't a perfect parent or grandparent or wife or human being.  Sometimes she was codependent.  Sometimes she made racist or ignorant comments.  Sometimes she got really, really sad. She almost never cleaned.  And, as much as I loved the food she made me, it was usually just this side of burnt.

But everything she did, she did with the best of intentions.  For every slur she would use, she was making friends with anyone and everyone, sometimes to the point that we'd spend an hour just trying to get into the grocery store.  And for every time she didn't support her children in the way they had hoped, there were the millions of times she had food ready "just in case," even if no one showed up.  For every time she was depressed and anxious, there were the times that she picked us up at school, or took us shopping, or babysat us no matter how she felt.  And for every time she was ridiculous about something, there were all the times she let us spend the night and never failed to rub Vicks on our chest when tucking us in.  For every time she was petty or shallow about someone, there were all the times she treated her children-in-laws better than their own families sometimes treated them.  And for every time she didn't understand me, there were all the times that it didn't matter any-which-way because she loved me for exactly who I was. 

She loved the best she could.  And based on how terribly I miss her, she loved me a whole, whole lot.