One Last Hug

When I was a kid, I thought I was a horrible writer. Yet I still wrote all the time. Little poems, songs, love letters to whichever boy I was convinced I would marry at the time. I wrote about everything, and I still do.

The only thing I've never been able to write about is grief. So please be kind with this post; it's a new experience for all of us.

A little over a month ago, my grandfather died. The weird thing was, I knew it was coming. He'd been sick for a few years—not incredibly sick, but still sick. My mom told me on a Friday night, and he was gone by Wednesday morning. When she told me he was sick, I cried as though he were already gone, and I felt like I was grieving someone who was still alive.

My grandfather, my Zeda, was the most incredible man I have ever known. I think I will compare everyone to him. He was the best father I had ever seen. Tough love, but he was always there for his children, no questions asked. He was successful, building himself from the ground up. He was well-traveled, something I aspire to be as well. He was strong. As the oldest living male in his family, he lived through the deaths of his parents and his brother. He was a kind husband, providing for my Nana but also always showing her love, grace, gratitude, and adoration.

He was so smart—he knew everything. He decided we should all get rid of Alexa and just ask Stan instead. I remember spending lots of time with him reading in his study. He would tell me stories I've long forgotten, but I remember always being completely enthralled by them. I would ask him questions I was sure he wouldn't know the answers to, but somehow he always did.

We would often watch documentaries together, about anything and everything, and talk about religion. I've always been a little shaky with Judaism, and that's a story for another time, but my Zeda always made me proud of my Jewish heritage. He would tell me about his parents and how they came to America, how proud he was to be first generation. It made me proud too.

My Zeda put money every year into a college fund for me, and knowing he got to see me graduate means I know he saw his hard work come to fruition. He never went to university, but he made sure all of his grandchildren had the opportunity to go. I hope every day that he was proud of me. He always told me reading would make me smarter, and I think everyone knows how much I have read and how much I love to do so.

When I was a teenager, he told me, “Marry a rich man so you will never have to work.” I argued with him that I wanted to work, that I didn’t need a man to take care of me—I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. For so long, I understood that statement as him doubting my ability to take care of myself. It is only now, as an adult, that I understand what he truly meant: that I can take care of myself, but I shouldn't have to all the time. That I don't always need to be strong.

Grief is not an emotion that I am unfamiliar with. I've lost too many people, most to cancer. Grief never becomes easier, no matter how familiar I am with it. It feels like this absence inside you. Where there was once joy and light, there is nothing, as though it's been yanked from your body. There is this impending sense of nothingness. Like nothing you do matters because they are gone, and without them, how do you function?

The worst part is how happy the world is around you when all you want to do is scream. Scream, “How can you be happy when he's gone?” But they didn't know him, and their lives will go on as though nothing has changed. And you're left to drown in your own grief.

I wish this were a lesson I could tell you I've solved, but it's not—and I'm not sure it ever will be. I'm familiar with grief. It greets me like an old friend, draws me into the worst version of myself, brings back every illness I have worked to subdue. It says, “I see your pain. I can help you.” But it never does. It pulls you in deeper so that every loss you have ever felt rushes back, and you're reminded of all the people you loved that you will never see again.

To know you is to love you. To know you was to love you. That transformation from is to was will never get easier. Life will not be the same without you—your witty remarks, glowing smile, terrible singing voice, outrageous intelligence, everlasting kindness, and your unconditional love. A love I will cherish forever.

Lead with kindness.

Lead with love.

Lead with understanding.

You never know when someone is sitting there wishing they could give their loved one one last hug. You never know which hug will be the last.

And as I've finally learned to write about my grief, I know I would give anything for one last hug from my Zeda.

All my love always,

RK