Grieving in Isolation: A Letter to my Late Grandfather
Dear PopPop,
No one ever told me how hard it is to start referring to someone in the past tense. It's more than just the moment when “is” becomes “was.” It’s the emptiness of changing the last few letters of a word when speaking, so that "love" becomes "loved” and “live” becomes “lived.” Sometimes, I still subtly slip up. For a moment, I am glad that I do. For a moment, I am at peace. For a moment, I am back to life before February 7th, 2019.
My childhood memories with you exist in technicolor. Even after eighteen years, they still retain their vibrancy and magic. A part of me is afraid of watching them fade away. The past revisits me from time to time throughout the day. I think of your absence in the pauses of my words and lulls of my thoughts. These brief periods of time let my mind wander back to our adventures: collecting the tiny white wildflowers in your backyard, having picnics in the Chevy before your doctor’s appointments, walking around the Perth Amboy waterfront near your favorite boat-watching spot.
The grieving process never loses its poignancy; it rests on my soul like a slow-healing bruise. As deep purple fades into light yellow, the tenderness remains. I find myself tearing up over listening to “Sunshine on my Shoulders” by John Denver, remembering how you used to sing me to sleep on the wooden rocking chair. I lose myself breaking down over looking at old family photos, remembering the way you used to sprawl out hundreds of them across the blue tweed couch. I tell myself that everything will be okay. (I have been saying that for the last two years. I still wonder if it will ever be true.)
Early on in the grieving process, I searched for a cure. Perhaps, some type of antidote to alleviate the pain of starting my life as I watched yours end. I just turned sixteen at the time, navigating the peak of adolescence without the mentor who raised me. To fill this void, I tried to fill my life with distractions, occupying every moment with no time to think. Despite overwhelming myself with schoolwork and extracurriculars, as soon as my head hit the pillow, I had to face the truth alone in my bedroom: you are not here anyone. No amount of distractions or lies or wishes could ever change that. I carried this acute sense of hopelessness with me until a year passed by.
The first anniversary of your passing provided an added difficulty for me. Considering the COVID-19 pandemic began soon after, the quarantine isolation amplified your absence. This time alone forced me to confront my emotions. Rather than push them away, I became increasingly aware of my inability to escape grief. No longer could it hide behind the back of my brain. When the world stopped, my heartache started.
Being inside with little social interaction provided a period of deep reflection. Initially, I had a difficult time processing my emotions after suppressing them for so long. Numbness melted into desolation. I was scared—not only about losing you, but losing myself. However, I refused to let these negative emotions consume me. If anything, the early months of the pandemic allowed me time to heal. Even though this situation forced me into an uncomfortable position, the solitude introduced other avenues to help me work through the grieving process.
During this time, I turned to writing and therapy as my primary outlets. For a while, I stopped writing to avoid facing my thoughts. Yet, getting over my fear of writing proved to be a cathartic way of releasing a year’s worth of built up energy. Sometimes I wrote down poems or short stories about our memories of dancing on top of your shoes at doo wop concerts in the summer or sitting downstairs at the fireplace to roast marshmallows for some s’mores. Sometimes I reread the poems I wrote for you, remembering the way they used to bring tears to your eyes every time you read. You always encouraged me to write; I realized I should have never stopped.
Along with writing, going to therapy again improved my overall mental health. Because of the pandemic, all of my sessions were online through a video chat. At first, I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of returning to therapy—especially over a computer screen. However, having the ability to learn a variety of cognitive strategies and techniques assisted in coping with my grief. As I spoke to my therapist, I felt more secure in sharing this part of myself that I kept hidden. Healing in this safe space made my pain feel less and less like a burden.
Instead of finding the cure to grief, I found ways of mitigating it. I no longer feel guilty for harboring such emotions; they are just as valid as any others that exist within me. In your lifetime, you taught me that there were always “good juices” and “bad juices” flowing inside of everyone. “Keep the good juices flowing. Don’t let the bad juices get you down,” you would say. I think now, two years since you’ve been gone, that I have learned to accept both. As a little kid I used to think of these colorful liquids coursing through my veins: the “good juices” being a dazzling red and the “bad juices” being a dull blue.
And, I am okay. I am okay with being purple.
With love,
Abigail