Our Stories

I wake up to the very familiar sensation of a full bladder. The darkness indicates one of two realities: I woke up in the middle of the night again, or my alarm is about to go off. I stare out the window for a few seconds, mentally mulling over what I’ll do in either scenario.

I need to stop drinking water at 7.

I turn around to get the clock’s confirmation and see that scenario B is in play, then I notice my phone. There’s a missed call. I only have two contacts that can override the “Do Not Disturb” setting. Mom’s missed call triggers a primal response: I plant both feet on the ground, breathe as I hold the phone in my hands, and stare at Mr. Bad News right in the eyes.

When I finally unlock my phone, I see other notifications under her name; the group that began texting at 3 AM is my dad’s family. I know she is now gone before I even open it.

3 days after her 93rd birthday, and as peacefully as anyone would hope for, she is gone.

I feel the weight of this new reality on the bottom of my feet and push myself up. I splash water on my face, picturing my dad, who has now lost both his parents. His sadness takes over me. Grief that drips down my chin and into the sink as I stare at someone who has now lost all of her grandparents.

I shower, I think of her, I taste this new reality. And yet, nothing feels different. We lived far apart, we weren’t close. Still, I ask: How are things different now?

Dad’s sadness is one of those things I truly cannot deal with, it’s too grand, too loud. Yet, I know her death is another open window—a chance for me to reach out and do what daughters do. 

I set myself up for expectations that will may hurt me or free us.

My mind redirects so I can carry on with the day: I go back to thinking of her. I think of her life and imagine what it felt like to be the last one standing in her family. She had polio as a little girl and no one imagined she would live this long. One by one, her siblings passed, and she was left to carry their stories.

Why does death always bring me here? 

When someone dies, some stories may die with them.

I feel the loss for the stories I never heard from her, the experiences she could have shared with me, and the anecdotes she gifted those closest to her. All of those now locked in a box that went away with her.

I wonder who you were in their eyes. The person I saw was strong, powerful, intimidating—someone who drew many tears when I was little and many smiles when I grew up. That’s what I get to keep—a bunch of memories, filtered through lenses of gratitude and forgiveness.

Sitting in the car, imagining the kind of grandma I’ll be, I open the notes app and write this:

We carry on in the stories we leave behind. We leave them to those around us who listened, who witnessed, who lived them. I carry many stories, of you, with you. Many with heavy sadness, many with sternness. Many years of our lives when I feared you, and many, more recent years, when I loved you. Your sweetness came through in the end and I took it all in. I’ll carry our stories.