Some things in life have to be experienced to be understood. When someone talks to you about what it feels like to send a child off to college, you can nod and say it must have been hard. When someone talks to you about falling in love, you can share in their joy as if your heart knows that feeling. And, when someone talks to you about loss, you can pretend to understand the pain while helping them grieve. There is only so much you can seem to have empathy for. It is only when one of these things happens to you, really happens, do you finally understand.

Two years ago, when I was fourteen years old, I could truly empathize with loss of a loved one. My grandmother, at the young age of sixty-four, died of ovarian cancer. Before I go into the feelings, heartache, and process of the experience, there is something she would want me to say. My grandmother was the most stubborn and headstrong woman a woman could be, and that is saying quite a lot. Never once, in the two years she was very sick, did she allow herself to say she was in pain; or that she needed help; or that she was not going to make it. To her, every trouble she had experienced in life was just a small roadblock to overcome.

The attitude and hope she possessed helped my grandfather a lot. However, it did not fool my mom. I remember talking to her after my grandmother had passed. I had asked when the cancer’s symptoms really began. My mother had sullenly replied, “Your grandmother had been sick for as long as I can remember. She was just amazing at hiding it.”

At the time, I was angry. Angry at my grandmother for making her overwhelming sickness such a surprise; angry that she would allow all of us to have hope ripped from our grasps; angry at myself for not realizing it.

Now, I can look back at it and understand. Sometimes, when it comes to love, it is best to keep things hidden. It is better to hide something than expose it and see the pain it inflicts. I can finally understand that my grandmother loved my family so much she could not bear to see us grieve with her still alive.

In the beginning it started with more frequent phone calls between my mom and her dad. Her phone would ring and she would hide away in the bedroom, keeping her voice low as my grandfather updated her on his wife. My mom never told my brother or me right away what the news was. I knew part of it was for our sake, but I also knew it was mainly because if she were to tell us what was happening, it would make it too real. Too concrete.

Eventually, the phone calls were not enough. It was time for my family to visit my grandparents where we could see for ourselves and offer support. I remember the first conversation between me, my brother, and my mom. This was when the ovarian cancer was pronounced official, so it was still the very early stage.

“There’s something your father and I have been needing to tell you,” my mom had said. Ironically, my father was never part of these conversations.

“What is it?” My older brother asked.

“You know your grandmother has been struggling for awhile- in and out of hospitals. Today she had a consultation with her doctor. He informed your grandparents that she has stage four ovarian cancer.”

“What is that?” My brother asked. I was not able to speak, taking time to process the news.

“It’s a form of cancer that badly affects the ovaries. It’s still early on, so we don’t know exactly what’s to happen from here. We just know that your grandma will be very sick for a while, probably out of it often as well. I just wanted you to be prepared for that when we visit.”

My brother, being the wannabe doctor he was, had asked more questions. He had asked about cancer treatments, what the stages meant, even costs. Whatever my mom could not answer he would research. He became a good source of information for my parents to go to when they had questions about future treatments. I was just glad someone in the family was keeping together.

When we arrived at their house the first thing I noticed was the big brown piece of furniture replacing my grandmother’s favorite reclining chair.

“A friend of ours gave us this chair to replace the old one. He said it would be better on your mother’s back when she’s home from the hospital,” my grandfather had explained to my mom.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal, that new chair. Even so, it was not the chair itself that struck a chord in my heart, it was the change. My grandparents had been the same sickeningly romantic, humorous, loving, spoiling pair since I had been born. I always knew what to expect when we visited. This...this was a hint at what to come. A hint that nothing would ever be the same as it was in these four walls of their house.

Hospitals. The stinging scent of antiseptic, the dim overhead lights, the constant beeping of machines every few steps. This building, over the next month, would become as familiar as my own home. If an acquaintance were to ask me today why I hate hospitals I would simply say it is because of the noise. What follows, however, is the true reason.

My grandfather explained how grandma would have frequent visitors. She was always a loved and known woman. Her visitors ranged from church friends to close sisters. However, my family’s first visit with her would luckily only be us.

“I figured she would be sleeping,” my grandfather said as we stepped into the cramped room. She shared the space with another lady whose bed was hidden from view. The walls were white, the lights were dim, and every blue curtain by the two beds were drawn closed besides the one that would obscure my grandmother from view.

My mom silently walked to her mother’s side. We all watched as the older lady’s chest moved up and down in ragged breaths. “She doesn’t look too bad,” my mom whispered. I glanced  at my grandmother’s face. She looked the same; the only difference being the absence of the brown and poofy hair she once prized. My brother later explained to me that hair fell out as a side effect of chemotherapy.

Not long after, she opened her eyes. Her slim smile greeted us, too hazy to form words. “Hey mom,” my own mother broke out, grabbing her hand, “how are you doing?”

My grandmother cleared her throat. “Alright. When did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago,” my grandfather replied.

“Do you need anything?” My mom asked. She shook her head. She usually did.

We did not stay very long, for it was late and we knew she needed rest. My grandfather insisted on staying another night in the hospital room, sleeping on the uncomfortable chair. I knew my mom would have as well but we could not stay in her old home without her; It was already going to be strange without the two people who gave the place heart and warmth.

We stayed at my grandparent’s house for three days. Each day we visited the hospital, staying for both breakfast and lunch. (Hospital food is not the worst thing, as most people believe.) She seemed to get better each visit. She stayed awake most of the time, coming as a surprise to everyone. Even though I was young I did not mind staying in that small room, rotating turns sitting in the big chair. I entertained myself with iPads, books, and drawing. At fourteen years old I knew the importance of family when one was sick.

We went back home to Springfield only when the nurse informed us grandma would be out of the hospital soon. She was going to be off the chemotherapy for a while. My mom did not seem relaxed by that news, however. She continued to have phone calls with her dad every night. She was determined not to be surprised again.

A week later was when it happened. She got the call that would drastically change the upcoming few days for all of us.

I was not home at the time, so I was the last to hear about it. My parents broke it to me when they picked me up from Dairy Queen after a speech tournament. I had my ice cream with me in the car, happily telling them about my day.

“We have some news to tell you,” my mother started when I finished talking, glancing at me through the rear-view mirror. “Your grandpa called to tell me about grandma. He uh, he said that she’s back in the hospital.” She paused to let that sink in. “He also said that she,” my mom could not look me in the eye anymore, “she doesn’t have much longer to live. So we’re going to head up there tonight to see her.”

I dropped the ice cream cup onto my lap, staring down at the spoon now dripping with chocolate syrup. My lip trembled and I breathed deeply.

“Do you have any questions?” My mom asked in the saddest voice imaginable.

My eyes watered over as I mumbled out a no. I could not hold back the tears any longer, letting it spill over my forgotten ice cream.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry we had to tell you this tonight, ruining what appeared to be a good day,” my mom cried. I shook my head, wanting to tell her it was not her fault, but too angry and upset to do so.

When we got home I had to pack quickly, for everyone else already had. I did not want to know how long they had been sitting on the news. My brother was stone cold, eyes puffy, face red. I had never seen him cry up to that moment.

We headed straight to the hospital closest to them, arriving around ten at night. My grandfather was already there to guide us to her room. She had been placed in a bigger space. Her roommate this time was set up diagonally from her, not very common in hospitals. All the lights were off and my grandmother had blankets pulled up to her chin.

My mom took her usual place to the right of the hospital bed. We all peered at the still and sleeping face. She looked ten years older. Pale, yet gray; White hair barely even whisps atop her head; Her wrinkles jiggling on her sagging skin with each breath.

My brother could barely look at her. My mom could not look away.

“How long has she been sleeping?” My dad asked, standing to the left of the bed.

“She’s barely ever awake. It’s been a couple of days,” my grandfather answered, staring at his wife.

We stood around the bed for a while, not talking. None of us wanted to leave. Nobody wanted to admit this could be her last night.

Then her eyes opened. A machine started beeping.

“Pat?” My grandfather calmly said. Her eyes were barely squinting, her head turning to each of us, no recognition forming.

When her glance found my dad she stopped. “Richard…”

Nurses came in as she fell back into what we hoped was sleep. My mom began to cry as she realized her mom had forgotten our names, besides my dad’s. My dad had to pull my brother and me out of the room, his own eyes welling up. The three of us left the hospital that night, hearts weighed down by a stone of guilt. We did not want to be gone when it happened. But not all of us could stay there until morning.

The next day was filled with visitors. It seemed that everyone who knew my grandmother wanted to see her one last time. She would have been happy to know how many people came.

It is funny how sickness, and death, can bring families together. People you only see twice a year, coming together to help console and heal broken hearts. My great aunt and uncle, my cousin and her husband and her brother, my dad, my brother, and I. We came together as a team with one common goal- help my mom and grandfather through this impossibly tough time.

My great aunt loves talking. In times like these, I am thankful for that. She kept the atmosphere as light as it could be, talking about her fondest memories with her sister-in-law and best friend that was my grandmother. It helped bring a smile to my mom’s face. My grandfather tried, but just could not bring himself to relax. We did not make him.

My grandmother died that same day. All of us were in the room, my grandpa holding onto her hand. My mom and great aunt were sitting on the couch next to the bed, talking about one of the memories of her. I was standing next to the couch listening and picturing it in my head, thinking of my own memories.

I remember the exact moment it happened. Call me crazy, but the air seemed to shift. My aunt even paused in her story, both her and my mom turning to look at my grandmother. We all watched as her eyes opened for a split second. My breath released, almost in relief.
Then her chest rose. And fell. And her complexion turned milky white.

My grandfather screamed. My mom and great aunt jumped up, calling for a nurse. I stared, numb. When nurses arrived my dad yet again pulled me and my brother out of the room to a space across the hall that acted as a private waiting area.

I did not allow myself to cry for the longest time. I would not allow myself to believe it. Not when my grandfather screamed. Not when he refused to leave my grandmother’s side as the nurses tried pulling the bed out of the room. Not even when my mom came to tell us he was going to take a moment alone to say some things to her lifeless body. It would be a while before it hit me.

That moment, now forever engraved in my brain, would change me. It would help me realize a few things. First, family is the most important thing a person has. They are who will be right by your side when things are bad. They are the ones that are going to put you back together when you are breaking inside and out. Family is not to be taken for granted. It is to be cherished.

Second, love is truly the strongest bond between two people. It will make you do crazy things. It will make you neglect your own basic needs when the one you love is in need. Love is what kept my grandfather stable. It is what drives him to this very day, two years after his wife’s death. He knows that a love as strong as theirs will be what greets him in Heaven. But, he also knows that the love of his life would want him to continue on without her. Love is something that needs to be handled carefully, but it is needed for our own well-being.

Finally, grief is for the living, not for the dead. A loss is an event that will happen to everyone at some point. When it does, it is a chance for us to be reborn in a way. We are able to figure out what we need, what keeps us grounded, and who is there to help. After my grandmother died, that side of the family became very close-knit. In fact, we still are today. Loss brings people together because grief can only be experienced with those who understand. Loss is to be remembered.

When such a traumatic event happens to someone, it is that person’s choice if they let it forever haunt them or if they let it give them new room to grow. My grandmother will forever be missed, but I know she would be happy with the outcome of how we handled her loss and how we turned out to be. When someone dies they will still be in your heart to guide you to get stronger, to overcome things in life without them. It is up to us to welcome that and allow it to make us stronger.