An Open Letter to my Late Grandfather

Grandpa,

A wave just crashed over me. I read two sentences about loss on a social media post and the wave came in from a deep place in my soul: strong and overpowering and full of pain. I always knew it would be hard to lose you, but I was not prepared for this. You left me at the wrong time. With you here, I was stronger, I had an anchor, I felt hope when I saw you. When you held my hand and prayed, pure comfort enveloped me. Now I feel unmoored, unsure, discomfort.

I didn’t want to write anymore. But when the wave came over me and the crushing pain rose in my chest and the panic began to overtake me…I grasped at this tool like an anchor rope let go to quick.

I’m mad at you. I never thought I’d feel this way when you went to your heavenly home. And the real me, the me you helped raise…well she doesn’t feel this way really. But the me who has already lost too much, the me who needed your hugs and your hands on her cheeks searching my eyes for my soul and finding me there…as you always had, that me is mad. I’m sorry it’s like this. I didn’t expect it and couldn’t have planned for it. Could not have prepared me, or you, or our loved ones…or my dogs who wander over and nudge my arm while I sob loudly into my hands and say repeatedly…” no. no. no.”.

I’m mad that you left us now. We are at our most damaged.

I spoke at your funeral. Everything I said was true. You deserved a less broken me there, and she showed up. But now I’m alone a lot more and broken me is living here…in this storm, in this hell. You would be so darn mad at me too. But if I asked if you were mad, you’d say “no, shug…I’m not mad I just want you to be ok”. You’d say, “look to the Lord for comfort”. And I would find that trite from anyone but you. I know if you could really read this you would want to know about grandma but all I can offer without going all the way under that wave is that we are taking care of her, and she is loved without measure.

I’m sorry. Your shoulders could always hold whatever I put on them. I know that. I don’t think it’s different now. But I’m still sorry. I know you would not have chosen to leave us ever…and certainly not right when you knew our hearts were already fragile. Learning to live here without you is hard. I reach for the phone to call you. I ache to feel your big, tight, warm hug. When I remember you are not there, I go down for a minute crying then come up fighting mad. If you were here, you might even laugh. Remember when mom got stuck in the snowbank that winter, we lived with you, and she came in as you said, “madder than a hornet” and threw her purse around the room and you turned to me and smiled? Then we got in the truck and helped pull her out and all you had to do was turn the wheel and it went right on onto the road. She drove it home and you laughed all the way back and then said, “don’t tell your mother I laughed at her”. It would be like that. Thinking of that now makes me feel a little better. I kind of just laughed myself at how ridiculous I can be. My dogs also have given me the side eye a couple of times as I heaved and sobbed and screamed…did you put them up to that?

I miss you. I know some people probably think I’m crazy. They would say, “he was 92 after all Mandy” and I would say, "you never met my 92-year-old grandfather who could still drive and mow his lawn and was so strong and so capable". I found out the secret you were hiding too. You probably thought we’d never know how much you had to help grandma or how bad her dementia had gotten. But I found out you were a warrior for caring for her during her most difficult days. Just when I thought your hero status couldn’t get any higher…I think someone said at your funeral that you were a saint. You’d have ducked your head and been embarrassed by that praise. It’s true though, you were through and through.

If I could wish you back…I would. I know that just now you said, “No Mandy Jo, no”. And I understand. But find me here and hold back the waves. Whisper to them to stay at bay, to give us all reprieve from the pain of losing you, our saint.

I love you,

Mandy