Grief Is An Ever-Evolving, Non-Linear Process
Before my grandpa died in April 2019, I thought about spending the summer doing the Camino Frances route of the Camino de Santiago, a 500-mile walk beginning in the French town Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and ending at the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral in Galicia. I wondered how to prepare for this trip and how to book trains, flights and accommodation, and would I be OK spending my 30th birthday walking hundreds of miles alone in the middle of nowhere? Most importantly, I wondered what would happen if my grandpa passed away while I was off in another country. At the time, he was in assisted living. And then, barely a few weeks after his 93rd birthday, I found out he had been moved to hospice and then, a few days after that, I received the phone call in my old New York City apartment that he had passed away in Florida.
I flew down for the funeral with barely anything, thinking I would be back in New York City only a few days later, and ended up going on a cross-country road trip across the United States from South Florida to Denver, Colorado. The fear was insurmountable, but of course I would take the car across the country. Of course I had to do this trip. One final journey with my grandpa via his car. Spending a month on the road driving from place to place helped me with my grief. Taking in the long stretches of highway and exploring new places helped ease the pain. Meeting new people each day and talking about the road trip and my grandpa’s death with strangers helped me open up about grief, something I had a hard time doing when my grandmother died in 2014.
Relaxing on a glacier at Jokulsarlon glacier lagoon during my solo trip to Iceland in December 2015.
My grandmother’s five-year deathiversary was last Monday, October 14. I’ve written about my grandmother’s death previously. I wrote about how I had wanted to leave everything behind but didn’t have enough money to go on a trip. After a year of saving and going on a mini solo trip to San Francisco, I went on my first solo trip to Iceland. Having such a fantastic time on that trip encouraged me to go on other solo trips in the years since that experience. For something closer to home, last year I attended my first Death Cafe and talked about death with strangers at a Brooklyn cemetery. We talked about why people don’t want to talk about death and dying even though this is something that happens to everyone.
Why is grief such a bad word? Why is talking about death and dying so taboo?
Grief is an ever-evolving process. The early days were horrible. The days beyond the early days were brutal. The days when everyone stopped asking about how I felt were hard. The days when I didn’t really think about grief anymore were confusing. The moments when something would bring me back to an old memory were intense.
As they say, time heals all wounds but they don’t take into consideration that sometimes the deepest wounds occur concurrently to other moments of pain. Unlike physical wounds, emotional wounds can have multiple layers that need to be healed. Sometimes, healing looks like even more pain before finally embarking on the path to get better. For example, I didn’t expect to celebrate my late grandmother’s birthday while on my cross-country road trip with my late grandpa’s car. I didn't think about the fact that this would be the first year both of my grandparents would both be gone from my life.
Taken on my summer cross-country road trip over the summer while driving along the desert and mountains in Texas in 2019.
And yet, I always think about how much they sacrificed in order to get me to where I am today. I think about their adorable love story in how they met at a wedding, my grandpa as the photographer and my grandmother as one of the bridesmaids. I think about the Depression, World War II and the hardships they faced. I think about the moments I've had growing up visiting their house in Westchester County, which seemed right out of a fairy tale with a vibrant green garden, fireflies twinkling in the summer twilight, a mini library tucked away in a cozy room on the second floor and a series of open-ended games of Monopoly we'd never finish. I remember all the cards they’d send for every holiday and birthday, and even the card I received when I moved to New York City for my first job.
I remember... and now looking back I realize that there are no new moments with them physically here. I cannot give my grandparents a hug ever again. However, after driving my grandpa's car across the country, I have realized that their stories haven't ended. My grandparents' stories continue in a variety of ways including retelling favorite quotes, looking through pictures and intentionally using their possessions.
I brought my grandpa’s camera with me on my cross-country road trip and on my two month trip around the United Kingdom including on my seven day hike on the West Highland Way in Scotland. I wore my grandmother’s jewelry and even though I lost the ring my grandmother gave me decades ago, I went to Mexico (where she bought me the original ring) and bought a replacement, so I could look at it and remember the original.
At first, I was embarrassed to tell the the people I met on the road trip the real reason why I was on this solo drive cross-country. When I told them about my late grandpa, they said they’re sorry. When I said I was alone on this journey, people were extremely encouraging. “Think of the story,” they’d say.
My grandpa and I talked about travel -- he as a merchant marine in the war and then spending some time over the summer traveling with my grandmother, and I about solo travel destinations -- and he mentioned that there was so much beauty to be discovered within our own country, across the United States. I’d mentioned that I wanted to see the world and that when I'm older I'll travel close to home. Now, after this "close to home" road trip, I wish I could tell him about the journey. I never told my grandmother about my love of solo travel because that passion was something I had discovered after she passed away.
Posing with my late grandpa’s car right after I drove across state borders from New Mexico to Colorado on the Raton Pass (at an elevation of 7,834 feet!) in mid-June. I pulled over at a designated area, took photos and then asked someone to take my picture.
Last week, I watched both seasons of the Emmy-award winning TV show “Fleabag” starring actress Phoebe Waller-Bridge, which originated as a one-woman show while at Edinburgh Fringe Festival back in 2013. The show follows the lives of Phoebe’s character losing her mother and best friend, relationships and grief. There are many relatable quotes, and I thought the below exchange in episode four was one of the most powerful parts of the entire second season:
FLEABAG: I don’t know what to do with it.
BOO: With what?
FLEABAG: With all the love I have for her. I don’t know where to... put it now.
BOO: I’ll take it.
FLEABAG: (laughs)
BOO: No, I’m serious. It sounds lovely.
FLEABAG: (laughs)
BOO: I’ll have it. You have to give it to me.
Fleabag: (sniffles) Okay.
Boo: It’s got to go somewhere.
Where has my grief gone? Around the world.
Grief pushed me out of my comfort zone again and again. Grief forced me to confront how I communicate and how to have uncomfortable, though essential, conversations. Grief continues to guide me along the way and grief will still be a part of my life no matter what I do. Even though grief fluctuates over time, I know that periods of decreasing thoughts do not equate a lessened love for those who are no longer here today.
