Grief Never Ends, Part 1

 In 1993, I experienced the first major death in my life. He was my great uncle and he was only 47 years old and we lost him to brain cancer. It was devastating. He lived in the small town my grandma grew up in, and although it was some distance away, he was my favorite person to see when I was there. He was full of life, goofy, and kind. He was a great person that was gone far before his time and my almost-13-year-old mind couldn't quite grasp something so tragic. Many close to me chose to believe it was God's plan but seeing as he barely got to experience his first grandchild, it seemed cruel to me for someone to have to leave this world so early. As they held his grandson over the casket to let him kiss paw-paw, my heart wrenched in agony and I tried to understand the grieving process. I tried to understand someone being completely gone from my life and it seemed too overwhelming to comprehend. 

Throughout my life, I attended many more funerals of family and friends. While upsetting, I seemed to have a pretty firm grasp on this process now and felt mature beyond my years to be able to tackle such emotional turmoil with only a few tears shed. I had become not cold, but numb to what death was and how it affected me. I was level-headed and most often the one offering the strong shoulder to cry on. The one who comforted others while holding my own thoughts and feelings at bay, tucked behind a big wall I thought would never fall.

On November 15, 2007, I watched my grandpa smile at a long-lost friend and simply fade away. The previous few months he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and had surgery to remove the mass from his lung that had also managed to wrap around his spine. After the surgery, he was in terrible pain and he tried to keep a smile on his face. On a trip for their 45th wedding anniversary, my grandpa lost the ability to walk. They rushed home and he found out he would most likely never walk again. His cancer was back and more aggressive. They started him on radiation but soon found out it was doing no good, and he was sent home on hospice with 24-48 hours to live.

Friends and relatives from all over came to see him and say their goodbyes.  We came together as a family to take care of him. He seemed right on the edge of letting go, but it was obvious he was holding on for some reason. The nurses asked us if there was anyone who had not yet come to visit him, and we really couldn't think of anyone. When his friend from years ago finally visited my grandpa smiled and peacefully passed away. We were ushered outside while they prepared his body to be taken to the funeral home and the tears seemed like they would never stop. I felt a sense of sadness, but relief as he was no longer suffering. My grandpa was my superhero and a part of me just thought he would always be there.  

The emotional wall I had built up was still there and I tried desperately to dry my tears as quickly as I could so I could do what I always did, became the shoulder for everyone to lean and cry on. I helped my aunt and uncle make the funeral arrangements and pulled it together so that I could be strong for everyone and smile for my child that was only six months old. I made sure that wall was strong and tried to do what I could to focus on my child and help them develop and grow. I wrapped my grief up in a bundle and tucked it away because life went on and I had things to take care of. My heart ached, but I did everything in my power to move on. 

It was only three years later when I found myself sitting across from a caseworker, being assessed because I had a psychotic break. My mental health had taken a serious hit and I finally had a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder I. After weeks of outpatient treatment, my therapist wrote down my GFS (Global Functioning Scale) and the attributing factors to the exasperation of my illness. On that list, my tubal ligation and the death of my grandpa. The wall I had put up was only causing damage, but I continued because I was strong. I was a caretaker and that's what I always do, take care of others.