I think that there is real difference between death and loss. Usually, when we know someone who has experienced a death of someone close to them we say, “sorry for your loss”, and on one hand, I completely understand why we’d say that, but on the contrary, those two concepts mean two different things to me. I have been fortunate enough to say that I haven’t had to face an extreme amount of deaths thus far in my life. Great grandparents, distance relatives in foreign countries, family friends, and a loyal dog are the extent of the death I’ve seen. None of these impacted me very greatly.
But what do you do when the death that’s affected you the most, doesn’t even feel like death? You see, three summers ago I was volunteering at a Young Life camp in upstate New York called Saranac Village. I was there for the entire month of July, with no cell phone or communication with family back home. Before I left, everything was completely fine, nothing was wrong. During my first week there, I was called to the main office because my mother had called and left a message for me to call her back. That was red flag number one because my mom wouldn’t have contacted me unless it was urgent. My grandfather, my Poppop, was sick. They took him to the hospital and he was diagnosed with liver cancer. He was given a year to live. But he was healthy before I left, how could this be true? A year to live? That’s not enough time. A few days later I got another call. Poppop is getting worse. He’s taking chemo pills but he’s so weak he can barely move or speak. I talked to him. He told me he loved me and that he was proud but I could hear the heartache and the pain in his voice. But the pills were going to work. The doctors said a year. There was time. Another call. Things were looking really bad. Nothing was guaranteed anymore. I was asked to pray over the phone, for Poppop and for the family. That meant so much to me. I hung up the phone and cried. Less than two weeks after the initial phone call, Poppop died. And there I was, nine hours away from home, unable to see him or attend the funeral. I was close with my Poppop. Him and my grandmother are my closest family members. Now he was gone, and I wasn't even there. I was so extremely fortunate to be surrounded by the most incredible people at Saranac as I was processing his death. My best friend was there, and she offered me support as a best friend should. But so many people, people who I knew for two weeks, loved me and cared for me in so many ways. Here I was on a gorgeous lake, surrounded by the beautiful Adirondack mountains, and being embraced by the most considerate friends. My grief was so different, I wasn't heartbroken or numb. God had a plan and, like always, it was marvelous. I wasn’t meant to be home during the progression of my Poppop’s cancer. I didn’t have to see him suffer or become frail. My last hug from him wasn’t one of weakness. My last memory of him wasn’t of death, but of life, and that’s how I’ll always get to remember him. God knew I’d be at Saranac, the most breathtaking place I’ve ever been, and He knew that the people there would love me in the ways that I needed to be loved. I’ve never felt so many people truly care about me as much as I did that month. I felt so strong because of the support I had all around me. So here I am, almost three years later, and I still do not have any closure. I’ve seen his ashes, I’ve been to his veteran memorial, our holiday dinners are one less, and I haven’t heard his joyful, bluegrass, singing, yet he still isn’t gone to me. Poppop isn’t dead. He’s lost. Don’t get me wrong, I know deep down that he is in fact dead and that he’s in a better place and that cancer is the very least of his worries. But how can I be expected to comprehend his passing if when I left for Saranac, he was alive and healthy, but when I returned, he wasn’t there. He was missing. I am not sad when I think about Poppop. I miss him, of course, but I do not feel grief. I know that he’s still with me. I felt him at Saranac, I've felt him in London, I’ve felt him in California, and I’ve felt him here. I been thinking about it so much lately, about how this death is so strange to me. How much one’s reaction, both short and long term, can be drastically different depending on the circumstances and environment. About how much I wish he was still here, but how it also doesn’t feel like he’s even gone. It’s ambiguous. It’s confusing. But it’s beautiful.
2 Comments
Mom
1/5/2015 09:02:56 am
Beautiful!
Reply
Ella Hewitt
1/6/2015 05:07:09 am
I think it's an okay thing to express yourself. You expressed yourself beautifully modest. My thoughts and Prayers are with you. Love Ella.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
WelcomeI'm Bianca; What I Write About:
All
August 2018
|