my grandma is gone.
The words run through my mind daily, like I need to remind myself. Sometimes I forget (because it’s all so surreal) and when I remember, everything feels empty again. I’ve spent weeks trying to process this emptiness. It’s hard to explain, a cold feeling that blames the world for still existing while she is gone.
I suppose, Men grieve better in silence. The school run, daily chores, meetings, camera on, camera off, I step on stage and off stage, everything in between — the words, the applause — is almost a blur. I hold my wife and cry empty tears; each drop is filled with sorrow. I’m sad, but I’m not. When you have been baptized by reality, nothing feels the same anymore, not even sadness.
It’s hollow, numbness, that doesn’t let any emotions in; nothing matters to me at times. I’m an empty cup desperate for something to pour feelings inside. I don’t know how to deal with grief; it’s supposed to go in five (or seven) stages. I’m hovering somewhere in-between depression and acceptance. Everyone goes. Life continues.
Away from reality, online, I see my cousins, aunties, uncles, friends all gathering for the funeral. We are like sailors returning from years at sea living different adventures, back to where it all started.
Grandma’s house. All of us have lived there at some pivotal point in our lives. How do you let people go when an entire generation of reminders remain?
My earliest memories of Grandma are still tucked in between linen sheets, on the mattress laid on her bedroom floor. One bed couldn’t fit all the grandkids, so we squashed together under the flickering light, sometimes a kerosene lamp, before bedtime. The children’s bible cradled in Grandma’s bony arms, while she talked about Noah’s flood, Moses’ staff, the parting sea, Joseph’s colorful coat. Almost everything I know about Christianity came from the pastel-colored pages of Grandma’s bible. I see some of those images as I write. Grandma introduced me to her God and the love of God. I never met my Grandad, but Grandma taught me how to love the things you cannot see.
Death is unpredictable, but even when you expect it, you don’t expect everything that comes with it. Nobody prescribes anything for the emptiness. I want to hold my sons, my wife, and be grateful for life, but my emotions are broken; they abandoned me on the day I heard the news.
This is not my first encounter with a death that changes the way I relate to existence. Death isn’t new to me, I’ve been here before. I’ve experienced loss, I’m at the age where you start (but unfortunately don’t stop) losing people. This will be my third funeral for a ‘grandma’ in 8 months. It hurts to accept that we are losing the pillars of our childhood, the people who raised us. Once again, I have to accept the gaping hole in my universe.
Dad says his mother is finally where she always wanted to be; with her God. Although I don’t want to accept his statement, but I can’t argue with it. Grandma is on her way home. Grandma’s legacy is her faith. She was a healer by trade, a retired nurse, but also in spirit. She raised every child who stepped over the threshold into that house in Tema. She raised everybody’s children. My grandma was the community’s grandma. We all experienced versions of Grandma’s love, and in many ways we represent her faith; we are her sermons. Through us, she created her own testament. 90 years, well lived. I have enough happy memories to cherish, a lifetime worth of stories to share with my boys. Still, I keep wishing for one more.
Today, I stumbled across a quote that helps a bit. I’m paraphrasing, but it goes like this:
We are not living life to be happy. Living life is accepting all the experiences that come with it; happiness, joy, sorrow, anger and frustration, grief, loss.
You don’t get to pick and choose the emotions that you experience. Life is an experience of them all. They come, and they come to pass. Nothing lasts forever.
This newsletter is supposed to be about love and relationships, but without love there is no loss. To love is to lose. Hopefully, this serves as a reminder for us to cherish the love we have before it eventually returns home.
In memory of Grandma Dora.
