Empty Places

A memoir assignment in English IV landed around the one-year anniversary of my grandparent's death. Here's what I wrote:

"I love you Grandma!" a little girl exclaimed while rolling out sugar cookie dough. Flour and sugar dusted the table, as well as most of her lime-green jumper and one small eyebrow. 

"I love you Grandpa," that same girl, a little older now, thought as she climbed out of a farm truck. Her eyes sparkled as she thought of the joke they'd just shared.

That little girl was me. Years later, as I stood beside a pair coffins, part that little girl still inside me. . . died.

I clearly remember the weeks leading up to the car wreck. Grandpa and Grandma were going to go on a road trip across the United States, stopping in at friends' and family's houses on the way. Spring was coming- Easter was soon. Grandma talked of almost nothing else, and Grandpa talked of almost nothing (as usual). He still showed anticipation though, in his quiet way. Everything reflected hope.

Just a few days before they left, we stopped in for a quick visit. Grandma excitedly beckoned Mom and me over and pulled something out of her dress pocket- a cell phone! She showed us how it worked, told us how many minutes they had rolled over. Her excitement was contagious, and we all laughed before she gave me and Mom each an enthusiastic hug.

Then a few days after they left, a Friday- Good Friday- Mom and Dad called my brother and I downstairs. Somewhere in Wisconsin, there had been a random car wreck. But for us, it wasn't so random. Because Grandpa had died immediately. Because Grandma was in a hospital somewhere far away, on life support. This wasn't just a random wreck on the news. This was pain. Loneliness and uncertainty, yes; but nothing at all like random.

At first, there were no reactions. Just silence- then came quiet crying that morphed into sobbing; this was real. Dad flew out to Wisconsin that day. He came back and got me a week or so later, I think. Time blurs around these memories: there are clear scenes and moments, but no full, coherent timeline.

The hospital was comforting. Sterilely white; white walls, white hospital beds with white sheets, white ceiling, white tile floor that reflected the blindingly white lights. There were no emotions here. Everything moved on a schedule, everything was structured. Everything would be fine.

I spent a lot of time in Grandma's hospital room, and often there was just the two of us. I'd sit in an office chair that was about as tall as me and I'd color and pray. I also brought a paperback, spiral-bound hymnal and my Bible, and sang out of one and read out of the other. Days at Grandpa and Grandma's house had always been bookended with Bible reading, and Grandma and I used to sing together while washing dishes. I hung on to hope that those things would happen again.

Then on Dad and my last day in Wisconsin, a cocky young intern or something came in and started unhooking the tangle of wires and cords attached to Grandma's head. I asked why.

"Because she's just doing so much better!" he replied cheerfully, barely glancing up from what he was doing.

Hope! Maybe God wanted to help us!

We flew home shortly after that. Driving away from the airport, Mom and Dad started discussing what would happen when Life Support was pulled off. I freaked out. Uncontrollable crying; intense, sharp jabs of pain through my heart and stomach. Complete helplessness. Everyone knew this was coming. But Dad was dealing with so much that he'd forgotten to inform me of what was going on. So, I had no introduction chapter to grief- not for the wreck that killed Grandpa- not for the sustained injuries that killed Grandma.

Coming home was hard. As in, it-would-not-be-Christian-to-punch-this-person-in-the-face, kind of hard. Whom did I want to punch? Those relatives who put on an elegant display of tragic grief, the people I didn't know at all who introduced themselves just to force their grief on me, and definitely that lady who looked at me so sympathetically and insisted that things were absolutely terrible for me and I was completely miserable from being reminded of my horrible loss at every turn. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy. . . long-suffering. . . " Sigh.

Now, as I sit in what used to be Grandma's kitchen and write about her, as I gaze out at the washroom where Grandpa used to come in to clean up and I write about him, I realize how much they taught me and how much their death changed me. From Grandma I learned industriousness, how to respectfully disagree, and the importance of loving those people you disagree with. From Grandpa I learned to wait for others to speak, to value words, to talk (safely!) to a stranger, and how to say things without speaking.

In losing them, I utilized what they taught me. I had to love those people I wanted to punch, and to express that love by letting them speak their grief. I had to learn to say, "I get it. I'm dealing with this loss, too," without talking, to use a simple facial expression to communicate openness and sympathy. I learned that people struggle, and I need to have patience and love them anyway. I learned that hurt doesn't come all at once, but in waves. Even now, over year later, some residual grief will wash over my heart, and its salt will sting the places that are still cut open.

But I can look back, back over what my grandparents taught me without saying a word, and forward- forward to seeing them again sometime, who-knows-when, and saying "thank you" for all the things they taught and still teach me.

You are honored, missed, still loved and forever(?) remembered.