My grandmother died when I was sixteen. It wasn’t a surprise. She had been unwell for a while with a second bout of lung cancer. When she went into remission after the first time, she continued to smoke. Later, when she passed, I remember telling people not to be sympathetic, after all, it was her choice, wasn’t it? I suppose it was my way of bypassing the pity looks, but maybe I just looked more like an asshole than anything else. 

It was summer, a Friday night, and I was all set to go out. I got a text from my friend that he was outside waiting for me. As I entered the hallway, my mom opened her door to meet me. She was crying, which was weird for her and weird for me. My memory has faded since then, but I imagine that she must have said something similar to, “Your grandma just died.” Even now, I can’t forget my reply: “Okay.” I turned, walked-out the front door, and hopped into my friend’s jeep, all without shedding a tear. I didn’t even tell my friend. 

I know people tend to hate “dead grandparent” stories. They always seem so hollow compared to other people’s tragedies. Maybe that’s why I didn’t allow myself to grieve properly with any of my losses. My grandmother’s death silently followed me over the years. I remember after my family’s drive back from Washington to retrieve her belongings, I wore only her clothes for months. People noticed and commented (you can wear only so many Seattle Seahawks shirts for so many days in a row). It was years later that I finally let myself cry for her death, finally acknowledging her absence. 

My paternal grandmother passed away in my early twenties. I knew she was getting older and we didn’t keep in contact like we should have due to the distance, so I made a point to visit her in Las Vegas before I moved east. A friend at the time sat me down and said that I would be making a mistake if I didn’t “say my goodbyes.” I’m glad I listened to her; my grandmother died the next year. She was also diagnosed with cancer. She kept calling after that first visit, asking if I was coming to see her again. She presented it as a casual curiosity, but I know what she was leaving unsaid. She kept trying to find ways to tell me that it would be quick, that I couldn’t wait much longer. I wish I would have listened to her. I told everyone that I was confident in my decision and that I already said goodbye the year before. Everyone looked at me knowingly with sympathy. 

I miss them both, but what I miss most is the lack of connections, memories, and stories that we should and could have shared. I didn’t make the effort like I should have. I knew that there was a small window of time and I tried to make amends with that instead of working harder. These are the hard lessons that you learn as an adult; the ones that come when it is too late. My mother mailed me a box of old things last year, most of it photos. I sat at my kitchen table sorting through my childhood and started to cry. Photo after photo there were people that are no longer here, more lost connections, family and friends, gone. 

I have always lived in my bubble of things missed and things never had, but I was new to the bubble of things taken away. I guess I had been there for years, but this was the first time that I had started to acknowledge my loss. And then I lost my childhood cat (yes, I know people hate dead pet stories even more), the same one that slept every night on my pillow, and for the first time, I was forced to live in my grief. I couldn’t hop into a friend’s car into the summer night and pretend that death wasn’t able to touch me, that the future couldn’t touch me. The reality that things would come to an end was more evident, and what do you do when you can’t run anymore? How do you cope?

Now, I silently make wishes and amends to all the people (and pets) that I never properly said goodbye to, and to all the missed opportunities and connections. My grief is still there, and it catches me at times unexpectedly: when the Summer Olympics are on, when I pass a Dairy Queen, when I catch a whiff of cigarettes, or when I see a rose bush, and I choose to sit there and welcome in the memories, privately saying I miss you. For those that are still in my life, I choose to make an effort to be present, to check in, and cherish these fleeting moments that we have, so when I have to say goodbye one last time, my heart won’t be as heavy.