Papa

How can my heart keep breaking when it's already lying in a thousand pieces in the pit of my stomach?

Today marks one week since my maternal grandfather, my Papa, passed away. Sometimes it feels like it's been a year, other times it's still not quite real to me.

I consider myself so lucky to have been able to be here in Michigan for the past three months, helping to take care of Papa and be with my family. I will always cherish the time I got to spend with him toward the end of his life, although I hope that these won't always be the strongest memories I have of him...I want to be able to remember his face filled with a smile instead of pain; his body strong and sure instead of weakened and bruised.

I'm sure I will, one day.

This is one of the toughest weeks I have ever had to endure. Yesterday was supposed to be my final day to drive Papa to his treatments before a ride service took over so that I could head back to L.A...instead, I sat by the window for hours, not knowing what to do with myself now that my entire reason for being on this side of the country is gone. I felt so lost. I still do.

I cried myself to sleep last night, unable to stop thinking about Papa - how my time with him is finished, how I won't be helping him put on his jacket anymore, how he looked as he slipped away.

Why is it that no matter how much we do, or how much time we spend, in the end it's just never enough? There is always something we wish we had said or done. I wish I had stayed at his house to eat lunch with him more often after treatment...I wish I had shown him the photo of us at my wedding, instead of saving it as a Christmas gift.

But one thing I can't - won't - wish is that I had told him I loved him more often. Because I know that I told him absolutely every time I said goodbye, whether on the phone or in person - and I know that even if I hadn't, he still would have known.

I try to find comfort in this, that for all of his simple means, Papa was rich in what matters the most - love. He had such a warm heart, he loved all of us so very much, and we adored him in return.

Because of this, and because he lived a long, full life, I don't want waste time being angry at the universe for taking him away. But I can't stop myself from hurting.

My heart aches. I feel like I'm drowning in sorrow. Just when I think I can't possibly cry any more, the tears just take over.

I know that he, of all people, wouldn't want me to stay this way. He, who told his own sisters not to visit him in the hospice during his last days because it was too much trouble for them, saying, "don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

I don't know exactly what I believe about the afterlife, but I do know that wherever Papa is, he'd want to tell all of us that exact statement...and I'm trying like hell to be strong like him, so that I can tell my family and friends the same about myself.


Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.


One day.