Loss and Grief

My name is Elisa, I’m the oldest granddaughter on my father’s side of the family. Two years ago today, my beloved Nana passed away. Life, as I’d always known it to be, was forever changed. The relationship she and I shared was incredibly special and unique.

I miss her fiercely.

Before I share what happened, I need to give you a little bit of back story.

My husband and I were fortunate in that we got stationed at our number one choice, Fort Carson, Colorado. Every summer and Christmas vacation for six years we were able to make the two-day drive to California to be with our families. As my Nana’s health deteriorated, I would keep in contact with nightly phone calls, but as her health worsened, I began calling more often and eventually singing to her because she was too weak to speak.

Eventually, her health was in such a fragile state that, when I’d call, I’d have to speak with her live-in aid to ask how Nana was doing that day. On this particular day though, and to my astonishment, her aid, Mari, told me that my Nana wanted to speak to me.

I remember how anxiously I waited as Mari went to hold the phone up to my Nana.

Finally, I could hear my Nana breathing; she struggled so much though that I jumped in to help her by asking her yes or no questions. By the end of that conversation it was clear—I needed to fly out immediately to get to my Nana.

My husband helped me pack and get on a plane the very next morning. That phone call happened on a Wednesday and she died the following week on a Friday. My father was the one who called me to give me the news, and it had been just hours after I’d left the hospital.

“Nana just passed away.”

That moment felt like a scene out of a movie—surreal. My father hurried home to pick me up so that he could get me back to her before they took her body away.

It was a very long drive.

Part of my heart was broken for my father and the rest was shattered in pieces for me.

We finally pulled up to the hospital, parked, stepped out of his truck, walked toward the building, made our way down halls and into elevators, went through the double doors, and then finally turned the corner toward her room. Immediately, I could see people gathered just outside her door, in the hallway, and more people sitting and standing along the walls of her room.

Then my eyes saw her.

My legs collapsed from beneath me.

My eyes closed tightly.

Then, almost immediately, I had people attempting to lift me up off the floor. Finally, they managed to bring me close to her and place my face beside hers. There was background noise and chatter from different people telling me to open my eyes, that she was better now, that I needed to look at her, but I wasn’t ready.

When I left the hospital, she was alive.

When I came back, she was gone.

Just like that.

I eventually forced myself to open my eyes, but my emotions swallowed me whole and I began to sob. She was a key player in raising me. She was the glisten in my eye, and I was the one she took under her wing. I wasn’t ready to let her go.

I started to feel angry. Why this? Why that? How come? My anger seemed to help me release very powerful emotions, at least for a little while.

I can’t remember how long I laid over her, or when or how we left.

I don’t remember much after that moment.

I remember her viewing and her burial. There were so many people. Many I hadn’t seen since my childhood. When they lowered her casket, it was like losing her all over again. The pain was just too much. My husband and children flew in to be with me, and shortly after her burial, we flew back home.

I had the most difficult time and felt so much guilt for not still being there for my family.

Then someone, I wish I could remember who because it made all the difference for me, told me that my grief would come in waves. That at first it would feel like I was drowning in them. Like they were too powerful to bear. And then, over time, the waves would become less powerful and occur less frequently.

They were so right.

Knowing what to expect, being able to recognize what was happening, and understanding that it would pass helped me in my day-to-day life. I’m forever grateful to those who contacted me by any means just to let me know they’d heard the news and were sorry for her passing; it truly meant so much. None of that goes unnoticed.

It’s been two years since we lost an amazing human being. I’ve gotten through this by staying in contact with my family, listening to them, sharing with them, and letting them be there for me, too.

Talking about my Nana has helped me. The sadness is still there, and some days I’m not so strong, but that’s okay.

I would give anything to still have my Nana here, but I’ve now learned what grief does, I’ve experienced love from people I least expected comfort from, and I’ve learned the value of mourning with those who mourn.

If you find yourself experiencing this type of loss, I hope that this post will bring you comfort.

If someone you know is experiencing loss, I hope that after reading this you feel empowered enough to move toward that person and offer even a moment of your time.

You don’t have to do this alone. There are resources out there for you. I highly recommend griefshare.org and Option B: Facing Adversity, Building Resilience, and Finding Joy by Sheryl Sandberg. I know it feels like it’s too much, but I promise you, one day at a time, and then those waves won’t come crashing down so hard on you.

Dear Nana, thank you for all the times you’ve held me. Thank you for all the tears you’ve wiped. Thank you for teaching me how to write my last name and for cheering me on as I was learning how to ride my bike. Thank you for finding the strength to tell me to come. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for who you were. I will miss you every single day.

I love you, Nana. Rest in peace.