*Note: this post contains strong language
The thing about grief is…it sucks. It’s like you wake up to a brick wall and everything hurts. And yet, it’s hard to feel anything at all.
I don’t understand why people die. I know with my words that death is a natural part of life. But why should something so natural hurt so much?
Last week I sat in my great-grandma’s funeral. Before that I got the text that said she’d passed. Words that I’ve heard before, words that I know. When my cousin died at 3. A friend from high school in her 20s. My grandma, after a horrific and valiant battle with cancer almost 2 years ago. Many others close to people I care about. And now Nana, a shockingly beautiful and kind woman, a month away from turning 90.
I feel powerless at funerals. Sitting, listening to words about life and death, about Jesus and suffering – while someone I love is right in front of me – in a box. I hate it. I hate having to be present to a reality I don’t understand. I hate not knowing how, or if, life will go on. Because life without someone you love sucks.
I wish that I could have seen my cousin grow up. I with that my friend had lived to know joy, and some kind of peace. I wish that my grandma could have been there at my wedding. I wish that she was still just a little drive away, where I could go and we would watch So You Think You Can Dance with her, and eat, and laugh, and cry. And I wish my Nana, the woman who held me as a child, who let me plant flowers for her in the spring, who gave generously and loved lavishly – wasn’t in a box somewhere.
Sometimes I’m angry, and I just want to yell at everything, to blame what happened because I can’t handle my own feelings.
Fuck cancer. Fuck disease. Fuck car accidents. Fuck old age. Fuck death.
Yes, sometimes I’m angry. But the truth is, more than that, I’m sad. I don’t like how unfair life feels. I don’t like feeling incomplete. I don’t like that grey skies come with sunshine, that life comes with death. I don’t like that emptiness comes with fullness.
And I miss my Nana.