Half a Decade

It was today, half a decade ago, that my mom called me with the news.

It was time to say goodbye to you, my beloved grandma.

We all crowded in that hospital room, 20+ people there to say goodbye to the woman who has meant so much to all of us. It was the first big loss of my life, and while we knew it was coming, it was still a devastating blow. An unfathomable loss.

Half a decade ago, I realized I wouldn’t be making any more memories with you. We had come to the end of the road. Instead, I would have to comfort myself with the 27 years of memories we had already made.

Playing grocery store on Pops’ old calculator that printed real receipts. One-on-one dates after church. Praying with you every Sunday for my uncle to quit smoking. Hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows. Listening to you tell stories about your life (you were always the best storyteller). Spaghetti nights. Talking with you about faith, there was never anyone stronger in her belief than you. Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff on saltines. 

Half a decade later, and all I want is to be able to tell you about my life. I want to cry with you about losing Dutch. I want to tell you all about my cats (of course, you wouldn’t be able to visit them with your allergies, but you could love on them from afar). I want to talk about politics with you and get your thoughts about this disaster of a presidency (sure, you were a Republican but I have to believe you would not be ok with this presidency). I want to hear all of those stories I’ve heard hundreds of times.

The last time I heard your voice was a few weeks after you passed away. That sounds weird, but I promise this will make sense soon. My mom and I came over to visit Pops (I brought him cookies—his favorite treat) and he popped in a video of the time the two of you were on The 700 Club. You were in full 90s glory then—glasses that were as big as your face, shoulder pads in your dress, bright pink lipstick—and you were so, so beautiful. Just seeing you on screen, alive, filled me with so much emotion. And then you started talking and I burst into tears. The loss felt magnified. I would never hear that voice again.

Right now, you’re spending your days in glory with the man you love. Pops missed you so much and talked about you to everyone he met. When he was in the hospital, a nurse wrote on his whiteboard, “Barbara, his wife, was the love of his life,” because that’s all he would talk about when they came in to check on him. I know he wasn’t ready to leave us when he did, but I take so much comfort in knowing he’s right where he wants to be. Your love was an amazing thing to witness, a love that was pure and deep but it was a love you fought for. I learned about this when reading letters you had written to a friend in the early 70s, letters in which you wondered if staying or leaving was the right choice when Pops was deep in his alcoholism. You stayed. You fought. Pops got sober. And your love got deeper.

It was this deep, abiding love I witnessed as a child and then as a young adult. I saw how Pops cared for you through every year of your cancer journey. The surgeries and the chemo and the appointments. The highs and the lows and the dark nights. And then the end. The end where Pops had to let you go. It was the hardest for him, of course. Half a century had been spent by your side. Who was Terry without Barbara? Who was Pops without Grandma?

I miss you so much, Grandma. I think about you constantly. You were too young to die. Did you know that some of my friends’ parents are nearly the age you were when you died? You were only 73. It doesn’t feel even the littlest bit fair. But I want you to know that we’re hanging in there. We’re doing okay. The grief feels overwhelming at times, and still a little bit unreal, but I take solace in the fact that I can still remember your smile and your voice and the way your face would light up when you saw me.

Take care of Pops for us. I’ll take care of Mom. And we’ll see you soon.