It’s been a week since my grandfather died and I still haven’t cried. Before last February, when my childhood dog passed away, death was just a concept to me, it felt so distant.
The past week has been somewhat of a blur to me. I moved back to D.C. and within 36 hours, I got the call that my grandfather passed away. There aren’t words to describe that, it’s like time stops for a second and you’re left to absorb the full effect of the words: “Your grandfather passed.”
I’m writing this on the night train from D.C. to New Jersey. My sister, Julia, and I are going home for the funeral. I haven’t seen her since we separately returned to D.C., and now we’re next to each other, me writing this, her working on some long reading for class, the unspoken reason for our travel sitting between us on this dimly lit train.
My grandfather’s passing wasn’t a surprise to me, he had been sick for a while, and I mentally prepared for it as best as I could, but I expected to cry. Why haven’t I cried? I know that grief manifests itself in different forms, but something about mine feels wrong. Julia and I both feel unspeakably sad for our family, each other, and for the circumstances bringing us all together, but the tears haven’t come.
When Max died in February, I felt that grief so deep in my bones, I still feel it today. I knew losing my first childhood pet would be tough, but I didn’t imagine how painful it would be. I held him in my lap and I said goodbye to him. I was with him almost until the end, I couldn’t be in the room when it happened, but I have never cried harder than I did in that moment when the realization of what was happening sank in. It’s devastating, to spend a moment with someone and know it’s the last.
I still think about him every day. I see him in all the dogs playing in the park, chasing a tennis ball and flopping on the ground just wanting some love. I see him in patches of sunshine and imagine him lying and soaking up the warmth. He was in my life for 13 years, and I would do anything for another minute with him.
I wrote something about a month after Max died, it was a step I needed to take to process how intensely I was hurting, to expel some of the grief that was pressing on my chest every second. When discussing the rapidly fluctuating emotions I was experiencing, I wrote:
grief is so strange. i once heard it described as hitting you in waves, and mine feels like some crazy mega-tsunami. it’s the first impact hitting so aggressively, smaller waves coming in, flooding that lasts for god knows how long, stepping back and examining the destruction left in its wake, and finally, the process of rebuilding, but remembering what was there before.
I remember writing that so vividly. I was sitting in my childhood bedroom and sobbing, I knew the only way to get those feelings out was to write, and it hurt so badly, but it was a cathartic process. Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now, my sadness about my grandfather is pushed down because I’m more focused on being a supportive daughter, sister, cousin, and niece.
Very few people in my life know that my grandfather is gone, I didn’t even talk about how sick he was. Part of me keeps thinking that if I don’t talk about him, I don’t have to put myself through the sadness. The more realistic side of me just doesn’t know how to talk about it, I can’t even fathom starting that conversation or receiving sympathy, it’s just hard for me. Loss is such an isolating feeling. I desperately want to allow myself to accept the sympathy of others and surround myself with support and kindness, but there’s something deeper, my gut instinct is to deal with it all by myself.
That’s something I’ve always done, it’s conditioned in me to pull back, push down my own sorrows, prioritize those around me first, and then slowly work through my feelings. I do it in all elements of my life, with my friends, my family, I did it in school. I don’t think my feelings are less than those around me, sometimes I selfishly think mine are more important, but it’s in my nature to defer my feelings to focus on those around me.
The plight of the eldest daughter strikes again. I’m subconsciously holding myself back from grieving until everyone else already has, so I can be there for them, and pick up the pieces after their tsunamis of grief subside.
I think there’s an unspoken rulebook on correctly grieving as the eldest daughter: The eldest daughter will hold the family together at the funeral. She’ll politely shake hands and accept hugs from people she’s met maybe once in her life. She’s quietly holding everything together, but who keeps her from breaking?
The constant sense of performance and pressure is one of those feelings I have such a hard time describing, that whenever I explain it to anyone who isn’t an eldest daughter, they look at me with a combination of pity and confusion in their eyes. I don’t want to be the person who always puts everyone else’s needs over my own, but there’s a gravitational pull just making that decision for me.
I think once my grandfather’s funeral is over, I’ll finally start to feel my own grief. I’ve had moments where it’s begun to slip out, but without even realizing it, I’ve pushed it back down. There’s a part of me that just wishes I could open up the floodgates, and allow everything to pour out, but I know that’s unrealistic, you can’t force grief. There’s also no proper way grief is supposed to look, regardless of the movies showing characters sobbing uncontrollably or falling into a deep sadness, but the reality is, most people grieve very quietly.
I visited my grandfather the day before I moved back to DC, and I knew it was the last time I was going to see him, but god, I thought he had more time. I left the hospital that day and felt hopeful that it couldn’t be the end, but the universe had other ideas. I’m fortunate I had that little moment to say goodbye to him, I don’t know if he knew I was there, but I’d like to think he did.
Pop loved plants, so many of my memories of my grandfather involve him talking about seeds or the fig trees he would grow outside of his house. He would send my dad home with tomato plants and fig trees, hoping to share those plants and his love for gardening with everyone else (it never caught on.) In the last few years, he got really into puzzles, something he and I would talk about whenever I visited him. He told me how he would sort the pieces, complete the edges of the puzzle, and then group the remaining pieces by color or shape. I found myself laughing because I do the same thing. He was very smart, he served in the Air Force and worked with computers, and sometimes I thought he was more tech-savvy than me. He read SO many books, mostly about gardening and fly fishing and all of his interests, and he always respected my love for reading. I remember when I was much younger and I was at his house, he would always ask me about what book I was reading, if I liked it, how many books I had read that week, and he would tell me to keep reading, that I was a very smart girl.
Grief is hard for me, it lingers and makes me feel uncomfortable. I hate the sense of it looming, filling the air around me until I can’t focus on anything else. I want to remember Pop at his best, before he was sick, back in the carefree days of my childhood. I know my path forward is about taking those memories and sharing them with my family. Maybe it’s the eldest daughter in me, but I think that sharing the love and the happier moments brings all of us peace. I think that’s what he would have wanted.
at the time you’re reading this, the funeral and family gatherings will have already happened, i’ll be okay, i know it.
thank you so much for reading. if you are able to support people’s princess, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, it means the world to me! i would love to keep everything free, but this is a one-woman production, and the support of readers allows me to keep doing what i love (this). i’m incredibly grateful for every single person that reads my writing, thank you a billionfold.
with love,
sarah 💌
p.s. i really don’t have it in me for weekly favorites right now, but i posted an entire fall favorites piece for paid subscribers earlier in the week. my main favorite though is my support system, i love you all so much.
Beautifully written, Sarah. I'm so sorry for your loss.
love you always ❤️