Grief

               Grief is kind of an interesting thing. I’m not sure that I’ve ever experienced TRUE grief before now. And I’m honestly going back and forth between “30 is kind of old to be experiencing grief for the first time” and “I’m not very old to be experiencing grief”. Of course I know that your age has no influence on what you are “allowed” to feel, but I can only imagine that feelings like grief get worse and occur more often the older you get and as more people you know pass.

               When my grandpa died, I told my mom, “When grandma goes, you might as well dig a hole for me too.” And I meant it. I couldn’t picture myself in a world without her. I was close to her and was for pretty much my whole life. We had a special bond. Shared similar interests and I think I would have lived with her if I could have (I pretty much did during the summers). Her house was my favorite place to go, and the hardest place to leave. I’m pretty sure I cried the whole way home every time we left.

               I expected the day I found out about her passing to be the hardest day of my life. The one where I wouldn’t be able to pick myself up off the bathroom floor for at least a day. And then – who knows? But it wasn’t. Not really. The hardest day was the day that we were given the diagnosis and the timeline. When it came to my emotions, it was essentially the same as being told she had passed.

               The “upside” to knowing what’s coming – being given a timeline – is that it leaves no room for regret. You can plan for it. You can go visit. You can spent the time remaining making sure to do the things you want to do and say the things you want to say. For that, I will be forever grateful. I have no regrets.

               How things played out, though, directly affected the course of my grief. While I was (kind of) already grieving when we were given the news, I didn’t really have time to accept that grief. And to deal with it. I couldn’t let it overtake me because there was still time to be spent with her while she was living. I had to ignore my feelings and try – DESPERATELY try – to act like everything was normal and make the most of the time remaining.

               By the time the day rolled around that she had actually gone to be with Jesus, I’m not sure I even knew what it meant to grieve. In some ways I thought that I already had. Because I knew it was coming. Everything happened essentially as we were told it would and in the timeline they said it would. It wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t unexpected. It happened the way it was supposed to. So I thought that I was good. I made it through the funeral without many tears shed which is abnormal for me – I’m the type of person who could go to the funeral for a complete stranger and I would bawl my eyes out the whole time.

               It wasn’t until after the funeral, on the two hour drive home that it really hit me. Just like when I was a kid, I cried the whole way home leaving grandma’s house. Because I missed her. And the feeling was only intensified by the fact that I knew for absolute certain that there was never going to be another day on this earth that I would see her fact in person or hear her voice on anything but the voicemails I have saved in my phone – that I still can’t bring myself to ACTUALLY listen to.

               Grief is and interesting thing. It somehow convinces you, for a few days, that, “You’re okay!” “Everything is fine!” “You’ve accepted what’s happened and you’re moving on!” And then completely out of the blue, it smacks you hard across the face and says, “Just kidding! You’re not okay” “Everything is NOT fine.” And “You’re NOT moving on.” And “Now we’re going to cry hysterically on the bathroom floor for the rest of the night.” And that’s what you do. Until it convinces you, again, that you’re okay for a few days while it winds up to slap you again.

               I don’t think I ever expected to still be struggling SO MUCH with this a month a half later. I’m not sure why not. If I truly believed that I would be in a hole in the ground beside her by this point. Or if I believed that if I could survive the first week after and the funeral that I would just somehow move on as if nothing had happened. But here I am. On the floor in my bedroom, trying to see what I’m typing through tear-stained eyes and trying to keep my sobs to a minimum so my roommate doesn’t hear me upstairs and come down wondering what the heck is wrong with me.

               But I guess this is what grief is. Believing you’re okay for a few days until you’re reminded that you’re not. That a part of you left with the person you love. A part of you that you won’t get back until the day you reunite in Heaven. Trying to convince yourself that you’re going to be fine, when, frankly you’re really NOT fine, until…when? A year? Two? A whole lifetime? Do you ever become truly okay again? Do you ever actually stop grieving? Does anyone even know?