Memory Monday – Grandparents

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My dad turns 70 this year. As a matter of fact in less than a month. And we were going to go back to Denmark to attend his birthday. It would have the first time we’d going back since we moved here 2.5 years ago, so it’s a big deal regardless how you look at it. But due to the Corona pandemic, that is now put on hold. We are hoping for summertime, but that all depends on how this pandemic plays out.

But hopefully it will happen. So my daughter gets to see her grandparents soon. She’s excited (me too, but I’m better at containing it…)

I was fresh out of grandparents by the age of 17.
Lost my paternal grandmother at the age of 11. That was the first big loss I remember in our family. And the first time I’ve ever seen my father cry. That in it self made it something huge. And super scary, because he’s the type of person, that copes through humor. Not always appropriately. As for me, I used to do that too, way more than I do now. I’ve worked hard at that not being my biggest coping mechanism, but sometimes still fail. I am only human after all.

None of the grand kids participated in the funeral. We were deemed too young. Back then, they didn’t know any better. I was the oldest, and I did go with them to the chapel of rest, but couldn’t get myself to go inside. Maybe that’s the main reason they decided that we were not participating in the funeral. Never really talked to my family about it.

When I was 15, my dads stepdad passed away. It was very different, and us kids were more a part of it, so way less scary and mysterious, than with my grandmother. Maybe because we were more aware of what the process was. And we were older.

My maternal grandfather had been ill for a few years. He had cancer. It was located in his throat, and he had his vocal cords removed along with the tumor, so he’d been using a vibrating device, to help him talk/communicate. He was around 70 at the time. He started having metastases lots of places around his body, and we knew, that it was only a matter of time. My maternal grandmother, who was 13 years younger than my grandfather, had been taking care of him for years at that point. Battling diabetes, that she had been diagnosed with at 59, she was struggling herself. And as she grew more and more tired, we all figured, it was because of stress (physical and emotional). Until her diabetes became so bad, that she couldn’t handle it herself. This was over the course of 3 months. Or at least the time frame that she got so bad, that she couldn’t keep it from everybody any longer. The doctor sent her to the hospital. They discovered that she had a tumor in her stomach region. And that it had grown so big, that there was nothing they could do for her. So my mom and her siblings decided that she should be able to live the few days she had at home, under their care. 3 days later, she was gone. But she fought to the very end, and didn’t let go until all 5 of her kids were at her bedside.

3 months later, my grandfather passed away. He couldn’t live without her. Seeing him silently weep at my grandmothers funeral was the most heartbreaking thing in the world. For a guy in his generation, he was a loving doting husband, but never showed that much emotion. That’s when I knew what lifelong love truly looked like.

It was hard loosing both of my maternal grandparents that close after each other, and I ended up in a funk, that I know today, was depression. But it wasn’t addressed back then. Everyone just had to get back on the horse, and move on with their lives, because that’s what we did.

So there I was, barely 17 (just a month shy), with no grandparents left, battling depression on my own, and trying to cope with life in general. Needless to say, that I didn’t do a great job. Not a horrible one either, but it could definitely have been better.

Blog Post Thumbnail Photo by Christian Bowen on Unsplash

Anne

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