August 1, 2021, officially marked one year since my grandma’s passing. I can’t believe it’s already been a year; it feels like it’s gone by in a blink. There have been so many ups and downs over the last year, much of which I penned in my vulnerable confessional on my mental health journey and healing. In the immediate aftermath of my grandma’s passing, my grief was so raw and visceral, I wanted to hold it close to myself and the ones I love. I didn’t feel ready to share with the world the depths to which I was hurting and grieving. I’d never experienced such a profound loss in my life, and the emotions of grief are confusing; I didn’t want to try and explain them to other people while I was still trying to untangle them myself. Sharing it with the entire world didn’t feel genuine; I wanted to keep it close.
May 6, 2021, my family was finally able to have a mass for my grandma, just the way she wanted it. It was immediate family only, and it was an absolutely beautiful thing. During it, the priest pointed out that because of the kind of woman she was, she brought us all together one last time–not to celebrate her life, but to remember the teachings and values she taught and showed us by living them in her life. She brought us together to remind us how important family is, that we still need to stick together even though she’s gone, and that she’s still watching over us in heaven. I shed a few tears during that mass, but I left it feeling at peace with her passing.
As the 1 year anniversary of her death was approaching, I started contemplating everything–how big of an impact she had on my life, how much has changed over the year, how I can now work through my feelings of it all without breaking down completely, and how I truly am at peace with it all. For the first time, I’m finally ready to open up and share. Although there will never be enough words to fully articulate everything and share the thousands of memories I have with and of her, I’ve decided to write a letter to my grandma to commemorate her:
DEAR GRANDMA, I can’t believe it’s already been one year since you’ve been gone. Last year, the day after you went to heaven, I went back to mom and dad’s house; I wanted to be close to them and Brendon and Aidan (my two brothers). When I pulled up to their house, I pulled right behind your Mercedes like I always did; I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. It wasn’t until I put the car in park and looked up and my eyes fully registered that that was your car in front of me–the one that I wouldn’t see you drive again in this lifetime, or get out of and open the trunk and carry handfuls of heavy groceries, clothes, and your champagne–your car was in front of me but you no longer were. The realization and enormity of this hit me like a tidal wave, and the tears came.
I was the one who heard Dad’s phone ringing on the night you passed. It was Auntie calling Dad to let us know. I had a sinking feeling when the phone rang that this was going to be it. I’d had a feeling it was going to happen that day. Dad took the call in his room, and then he came out and told us all the news. We told Dad we were sorry–after all, you’re his mother–but he (unsurprisingly) stayed stoic like he always does. Nick (my boyfriend) held me as I cried; they weren’t the kind of tears that come ratcheting out and shudder through your body all at once, they were the kind that come out in little spurts over a long period of time. I’d been crying on and off in the days leading up to it and days and months after. I’ll never forget the way Brendon, Aidan, and I held on to each other after we got the news, how Dad took us aside and talked to us and made us feel better. He reminded us how much you love all of us, and that we were so lucky to have you for as long as we did. I admitted that even though I knew it wasn’t possible, there was some part of me that thought you were going to live forever. I think we all felt that way because of how healthy, active, independent, and sharp you were. You always seemed invincible to us, the thought of something happening to you was unfathomable. And although I was extremely grateful for the 24 years I got to share with you, all the memories I was able to make, and the fact that you went out the way you wanted and were able to live your life exactly the way you wanted to, I still selfishly wanted more time with you.
Now, though, I know that there isn’t enough time I could spend with you. Even “one more phone call” or “one more dinner, late night drinking champagne with you” wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t make me feel any better. Perhaps the biggest blessing of all is the fact that all of the years we had with you were full. You were fully yourself and present for every single memory and moment shared; we all got 100% of you, 100% of the time.
I’m very grateful that Auntie was able to see you and read to you all of the messages we wrote to you that final time. Auntie texted me after she had left the hospital and told me that I made you laugh and you said loved me very much. Auntie told all of us that you said thank you, and that you loved us all so much.
In that message, I told you some things, one of them being that I’ll always think of you whenever I drink champagne (that’s what made you laugh), and I do. I also told you that you were my role model and will always be my role model and that hasn’t changed. I also told you that I would always live life to the fullest the way you did, and I’m proud that I am. I’m embracing your inner spirit and strength, your fierce determination, your kindness and compassion, your selflessness and generosity towards others. The way you took care of all of us so effortlessly, in a way that made it so we didn’t fully register just how much you were doing speaks volumes about the kind of person you were. You never wanted anybody to fuss over you. You took the time to visit sick people at the hospital and give them communion because they couldn’t get to church. The enormity of that selflessness and caring is incredible. You helped others because that’s the kind of person you are. Plus, you’re the coolest grandma ever. I mean, who else lives on their own, drives themselves in their own Mercedes, does their own shopping, carries in their own groceries, and drinks champagne at 87 years old? No one that I’ve ever heard of.
Before your mass, Aidan, Brendon, and I met up with the priest to go over some details about who you are and the life that you lived. Aidan told the priest that when he thinks of you, he thinks of “strong.” You never let anything keep you down–injuries, loss, etc. You always picked yourself back up and moved on. You loved the saying “it is what it is.” You weren’t just strong, though, you were a very unique combination of strong and compassionate. You let yourself feel things, you listened to others and comforted them when they needed it most rather than ignoring it; you were the perfect balance of both.
Nick’s mom texted me after you passed and told me how sorry she was for my loss, but that she believed that your beautiful and strong spirit lives on in me. I finally feel like I’m finding your strength. Quite a few people now have told me that I remind them so much of you, that it’s evident we spent so much time together from the time I was born until your passing. One of them even said that they think I look like you, now more than ever that my hair is dark. Auntie also said that she believes you live on through me. It’s because of you and everything you taught me that I’ve been able to pick myself up and deal with my grief over this last year, that I’m more determined now than ever, and embrace every moment and day and live life to the fullest for myself and no one else. We had a toast to you one night, and Uncle Tommy said: “To the woman that taught us how to live, and could set us straight with one look.” He summed it up perfectly: your wit, sass, and humor are unmatched. Everyone still talks about how you were the only one Dad would listen to. Thank you for instilling family values in us and teaching us the importance of family. It’s because of your teachings we’ve all stuck together even now that you’re in heaven.
Aidan got his permit this year, and he now drives your Mercedes–the one I pulled behind last year that made me cry–with Dad in the passenger seat. Brendon’s used it a couple times, too, and so has Auntie. Apparently mom had to drive it a couple times a couple weeks ago as well. (Why am I the only one that hasn’t driven it yet?!)
Last year, the world felt emptier without you in it. Now, I feel you all around me, all the time. Thank you for your little signs letting us know that you’re not gone–the heat lightning that touched down on the ocean in front of us after Uncle Tommy made that toast, the night-light you gave Mom that flickered the night you passed and the night after to let her know you’re still here and watching over us. The way you protected Aidan’s eyelid when it got split in half last year through a stake in a fence and miraculously managed to not touch his eye; if it had, his eye would’ve been gone. Thank you for flicking the lights on on my birthday last year letting me know you were there, for visiting me in a few dreams, one of which I awoke from feeling your presence in the air around me. Thank you for flicking the lights above me that time I was telling someone about Italy, your family, and where you’re from; thank you for responding when I talked to you one time. Thank you for the angel clouds I see every so often; for the drifting angel cloud I dreamed about on the anniversary of your death. Thank you for watching over us in this life and the next.
I carry you strength around with me daily. I love and miss you so much, Grandma. Ti amerò per sempre. 🇮🇹🕊️👼🏼
