A Different Type of Grief

On learning to accept grief in all its forms.

As I write this, I am sitting on my Dad’s La-Z-Boy in his den in Manzanita with an ice storm brewing outside. I had fully expected to be hunkering down at my own house in Portland for this stormy, long holiday weekend, but alas, life had other plans.

I was woken up by a phone call from my cousin on Tuesday morning, a half hour before my alarm was due to go off. She informed me in one quick breath that our grandmother had passed away earlier that night/morning, and that my mom was in shock and was being treated by the paramedics.

Not quite awake yet, I struggled to comprehend what my cousin had told me. To be honest, my mind skipped straight over the news of my grandmother’s death and made her reexplain what was going on with my mom.  

I still didn’t understand. I immediately hung up and called my mom, then my dad, then my brother. No answer from anyone.

Clearly something was wrong, but I didn’t know what to do since I couldn’t get ahold of anyone, so I went back to bed. I was woken up again by my brother calling back a bit later, upon which I told him the same news I had received from my cousin. I think I went back to sleep again, only to be woken up one last time that morning by my dad calling back.

It was true, he explained. Our mom was in some kind of shock, unable to recall any memories since 3am that morning when she received the call about my grandma passing in the night. They had taken her to the hospital, per recommendation of the paramedics who answered his 911 call, to ensure there wasn’t anything physically wrong.

I didn’t know what to do with myself while I waited. I told my dad I could drive to their house right then and there (it’s fortunately a mere 2 hours away) but he insisted I stay put since the weather was bad by their house. Highway arteries flooded with that day’s downpour, much like the tears that I hoped would flood my eyes, but that wouldn’t come.

—

You see, death is no stranger in my family. I say this not for pity but for pure objective fact, for context. Since 2020, my mom’s side of the family has experienced the death of four family members. First was my grandpa in the spring of 2020 amidst the depths of lockdown; then my younger cousin in the spring of 2022; then my beloved aunt in January of last year, and now my grandma just days into 2024.

Just seeing that in writing makes me shudder. My family and I have lived through an incredible amount of sadness and grief over these years, that by now I know what my grief over the death of a loved one looks like. It’s no stranger to me, I have expectations for it.

So when I didn’t immediately shed tears upon hearing the news of my grandma, I was confused. Judging myself, irritated at myself even. Why can’t I cry? I kept thinking.

I assumed it was partially because my grandma’s death didn’t come as a surprise due to her rapidly declining health, and because my mind was distracted by the double-whammy of my mom not being okay. I laid around all day, unsure what to do with myself while I anxiously awaited updates.

My dad informed us that afternoon that physically, she was completely fine and healthy as a lark. They had diagnosed her with transient global amnesia (TGA), a rare form of 24-hour amnesia that can happen to people in moments of extreme duress or even physical exertion.

I felt a bit better knowing there was an explanation and she should be okay soon, but was still anxious because she wasn’t herself yet. What if her memory didn’t come back?

I went to bed that night hoping for good news in the morning.

The following morning, I was woken by yet another phone call—this time the word “Mom” lit up my Apple Watch screen. Not able to wait a single second, I answered her call from my wrist rather than grabbing my phone from downstairs. She was okay, she immediately told me, tears in her voice. Instant relief flooded through me. But still no tears.

 —

I feel my chest constricting with grief as I write this. The dam is building up. I suspect there’s a wall of tears that will (finally) come running when I attend my grandma’s funeral next week, in the company of my entire extended family.

But maybe they won’t. Maybe I am holding it together for my mom. Maybe I am just numb. Or maybe it’s a combination of both. I have felt guilty for not being able to cry like I normally do. I shed a fair amount of tears a couple nights ago, while listening to old voicemails from my grandma, but it somehow felt forced and not entirely cathartic as a result. Writing this helps though.

Pete, my partner, keeps reassuring me (bless him) that there’s absolutely no right or wrong way to grieve, that anything I’m feeling is okay. And deep down, I know that. But I’m also frustrated because I want to cry, for I know it helps me expel the grief from my body. I fear I’m not processing my grief fully if I’m not crying; it’s almost as if I want to hurry the grief along.

Maybe the tears are all dried up. There’s certainly been enough of them over the past four years.

—

I’m reminded of a similar guilt I felt when my grandpa passed away, the first impactful death I had experienced in my lifetime. I remember feeling ravenous the day he finally passed, confused that I could be hungry at a time like that. It made sense though, as my mom’s family bonds through food and I wasn't the only hungry one. It was fitting that we could all share a meal together in my grandparents’ house, surrounded by his memory. Beautiful, even, as being together mattered more than anything in that trying time.

I am comforted by the fact that my grandma is no longer in pain, and that she is with my grandpa now, wherever that place may be. He’s probably already making jokes at her expense, my grandma lightly punching him in the shoulder and laughing along with him all the same.

Maybe they’re sitting at a wooden table in a big open meadow, the sun shining on their faces, while they play a round of “Oh Hell!” cards, my cousin Kyle and my aunt Michelle there with them. I imagine they’re laughing while my grandpa peers over my grandma’s shoulder, helping her to play her hand, my aunt Michelle calling them out for cheating and my cousin Kyle probably getting a kick out of it and getting in on the action.

The table feels a bit off balance, like there should be more people with them, much like those of us down here on Earth feel.

It’s a feeling I can’t imagine we’ll ever get used to, for there’s holes where they left.

But what will never fade is the love they gave my family and me. It’s the love that holds that table up, day in and day out.

To my dear grandma, Shirley—thank you for loving me unconditionally. Thank you for doing my laundry in college, for greeting me with chocolate cake whenever I came over for a study break. For making sure no one in the family ever went hungry (quite the opposite, actually), and for loving us as much as you did. For welcoming my friends as if they were kin of your own, and for imparting your wisdom about relationships on me over the years. I don’t think I’ll ever like orange sticks, but anytime I see chocolate + orange, I will think of you fondly. I love you 💕