I hate letting people down, and I hate them walking over me. I hate a lot of things.
It’s May now. My grandmother died recently. I’m thinking February, but I’m not sure if it was even this year. And isn’t it crazy that I don’t remember, what with all the crying I carried on with when I found out that it happened? Up until then I had always been proud to say that all four of my grandparents were still alive. I had had friends and classmates who had only had one remaining grandparent, but I had all four. Not anymore. God took one, the one I loved the most. The one I was closest to. The one who had combed my hair. The one who had made me breakfast. The one who had blended oranges with Aloe Vera for my sinuses. The one who called me by an affectionate nickname.
The one who lost her mind. And walked out of her room not fully clothed, saying things my aunt didn’t understand. The one who kept falling down, and hurting herself, because she needed to clean up the yard and my cousins were taking too long to come over and do it for her. The one who had a stroke, three strokes, and didn’t recognize me when I went to see her. The one who wore diapers, and lost so much weight that I thought I was looking at someone else.
The one whose funeral I never went to, because her children suddenly decided to fight among themselves, and my mother told me to stay away. The one I have cried for since then, because even though I never saw her often, it’s different knowing I will never see her again. I will never hear her voice again. Her voice that sounded like singing. Her voice that called me baby.
And now my grandfather says he wants to see the whole family before he closes his eyes. Why on earth does he need to close his eyes? Because the hospital made a mistake, because the drugs he needed weren’t available, because he’s old and it’s time? But he looked fine the last time I saw him. He sat up straight and spoke to me. The only giveaway was his dark fingernails. He was absolutely fine.
And now I’m thinking about a funeral and worrying about my dad and still trying to ignore the whole thing and hope that grandpa will get better. My father is familiar with death, very familiar. Ever since I was little he’s been going to funerals. He knows very well that everyone has to die at some point. I think he may have told me something like that when I was bawling for my grandmother. But now that one of his parents is the one is the one staring death in the face, it has to be different right? What if his father really dies?
And I’m wondering if I’ll ever get used to this. I’ve never had to deal with the death of people close to me. And I wonder if I’ll cry for them for the rest of my life, if I’ll miss them for the rest of my life. I will won’t I?
I dread these things. I don’t want to be a part of a gathering because my grandfather may die soon. I don’t want to go to a funeral. I’ve always hated funerals. I don’t want to see how my father will deal with losing his father. I don’t want to think about when I will have to deal with losing mine, and my mother too. I don’t want any of this.
I don’t want any part of it at all.