the loss

On March 24th, my grandmother passed away in her sleep at 94 years of age. This wasn't unexpected; it was a matter of time. And while this upset me, I was handling it OK. I took two days off work and made plans to fly to Edmonton for the funeral on Monday, and went about my life with a sadness at my loss.

My parents and I went to visit my grandfather when I arrived, spending a short time with him as he mourned the loss of his wife, four days after the two days of constant crying after they told him she was gone. It broke my heart to hear him talk about her, how even though it was better that he didn't go first he still wished she'd waited for him. I don't regret going to Edmonton for the funeral, but it has taken an emotional toll on me. Prayers in the evening, the open casket holding my Omi, the saying goodbye and the service, destroyed me.

Hearing my 99-year-old grandfather cry at prayers, watching him lower his head and talk to my grandmother in the casket... I could barely see as my eyes filled to the brim with tears. I kissed him goodnight before he went back to the care home, concerned that he may die of a broken heart before the morning.

My grandparents were married for 72 years. They lived through a world war, lost their home and country, lived as refugees, moved to a new country with nothing, and lived. Their lives were intertwined, so committed to each other that we didn't think either would be able to live without the other. They were still in love at the time of my grandmother's passing, my grandfather taking care of my grandmother's needs and wants, especially over the last few years of her decline.

The funeral was slightly less overwhelming than prayers, but still exceptionally emotional. I doled out my stash of tissues to my cousin and later my aunt, neither of whom are criers at the worst of times. Though I was teary-eyed, I managed to hold it together until I watched my uncles and cousins lift her into the hearse, at which point I fell apart as much as one can on a sunny, chilly day surrounded by loved ones who are all in the same boat. Family friends, including my old neighbours from my first year at university, were great comforts and lessened the immediacy of the grief.

One thing I realised was that my concept of commitment is based on my grandparents' marriage. I have a deep fear of commitment because I can't imagine another person feeling about me, caring for me like my grandparents felt about each other. With those kind of role models it's hard to see marriage as a realistic option because that benchmark is so high.

When I was in high school, I liked going to youth retreats for church, mostly to check out boys. At one retreat the priest (a somewhat progressive one as the session was on premarital sex and he wasn't saying it was the worst thing to do) said that the only thing that matters when your time is up is how many people you loved and how many people loved you. That is much more reassuring right now than anything else, both for my Omi and for me.