#88: Good grief

My beloved Nana passed away earlier this week. I found out while in the waiting room at physical therapy. My mom called, and when I answered, I was surprised to hear my dad’s voice. 

“Hey, I’m checking in for an appointment,” I said. “Can I call you back?”

“Um.” My dad’s voice was small. “Can you step outside for a second?” My stomach sank. 

My favorite photo of my Nana (which currently serves as my phone wallpaper)

Grief is a strange affliction. It’s hard to predict exactly how it will show up. This time, it swept in like a massive wave, knocking me off my feet. But as the news sank in, the tide receded and my grief started to feel more like a looming shadow, darkening everything in my immediate vision. 

I spent the better part of the last few days on my couch, distracting myself with old episodes of Girls (a show Nana and I loved to discuss, believe it or not) and poking at my sadness, testing its limits. I flipped through my camera roll, zooming in on photos of her and trying to memorize her signature short haircut, her stylish outfits, the pop of her bright lipstick. 

Left: Nana with my grandfather at a party they co-hosted. Right: Nana dressed as a card shark for Halloween a few years ago.

It was only when I made the decision to listen to all the voicemails Nana left me over the years that I began to sob. Her voice, low and honeyed even through the phone, was a painful reminder that I’ll never get to call her again. 

Every year, our grandparents took us to the coast. These summer days remain some of my happiest childhood memories.

But I’m also comforted that I have her voice at arm’s reach. And when I look around my home, she’s everywhere. My walls are adorned with artwork she’s given me. My bookshelves feature a wide range of her recommendations. I often wear the cherry red raincoat she sent after I complained about the weather in Seattle, and she even passed down her engagement ring, a sparkling reminder of her brilliance every time I look down at my hand. 

Shirley over the years. An icon!

Nana shaped so much of who I am today: my love of reading, my retail therapy affliction, my sweet tooth, my snarkier side. She showed me how to make caramel (and took over at the stove when I burned my finger trying to taste it). She brought the women in my family on an annual trip to New York City, where she taught us that cheesecake was a worthy breakfast and power-walking was the best transportation mode. An avid UConn basketball fan, Nana couldn’t watch a game unless her team was up by at least twenty points. I am the same when I watch swimming, pacing in front of the television until the race has a clear winner. I’ve collected so many pieces of her over the years, it’s almost as if she can’t leave, not fully. 

Us in 1994 and again in 2022.

The day before I started my road trip to Seattle back in 2017, Nana stopped by my parents’ house with a blanket-wrapped rectangle tucked under her arm.

“This is for you,” she said, handing it to me. 

“What is it?”

“You’ll find out when you get to Seattle.” She winked. “No peeking!”

Two weeks later, I sat in my new bedroom on the other side of the country, unwrapping the blanket to find a piece of art from her wall, one I’d admired for years. The piece featured a woman’s head, which split at the top like petals. Blooming from her was a smaller head, this one still just a bud. 

A note in Nana’s loopy handwriting fell out. “Just like them, we will always be a part of each other,” it read. 

I’m trying to take comfort in the fact that my grief, though heavy and hard to hold, is ultimately a gift, that I’m lucky to feel this heartbroken, to miss someone so much, and to know that yes, she will always be a part of me, in the art on my walls, in every slice of cheesecake I have, in the books I read and the clothes that I wear and the way I walk down the street.

One of my favorite photos of Nana, sitting in front of a painting of her younger self, teaching Gideon how to play bridge.

I love you, Nana. Thank you for everything.