Why Is My Grandmother Not Here and How Do I Get Her Back?

I always thought the denial stage of grief must be the quickest. Surely it would only be the moments right after the death when you don’t believe what you’re told. The moment where the world shifts and you try to cling to the way things were before. I never imagined it would last longer than five minutes after the person is made aware of the loss.

Maybe that stage encompasses all of those moments, but it also umbrellas the moments where I hear her laugh echo in my head and I can’t believe I don’t get to hear it aloud again. It’s moments where it doesn’t seem to make sense that she’s gone. Where is my grandmother and her smile? I can see it behind my eyes. Why am I suddenly deprived of it in reality? I can see my uncle’s toothy grin. What do you mean that quick hug during work was the last time I got to see him? That’s not fair. I don’t want to believe that. Even though I know it’s true, I can't bring myself to think about it.

Both of my grandmothers and my uncle passed away this summer. It’s been half a year since the first of those deaths, and I still find myself in denial.

I wrote the title of this piece a few days after my grandmother had passed when everything in the world still felt wrong because she wasn’t in it. The world still feels wrong. It’s just that it’s been wrong for so many months now that I wonder if it will always feel wrong. I still talk about her in the present tense. The same with my uncle. When I list the number of aunts and uncles I have, I still include him. I can’t bring myself not to. My dad has four brothers. He doesn’t have just three. That’s just not true. It’s like a movie where they’ve slipped into an alternate reality and can’t put their finger on what the difference is. Everything’s wrong.

When I did work on my mental health, we talked a lot about DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), which I found helpful in many ways. The last (and arguably most important pillar of DBT strategies according to them) was Radical Acceptance, where one accepts the place and situation that they’re in and that they have no control over it. It will likely not come as a surprise to those who know me that I had a very hard time with this one. I’ve recently learned that I have problems with control, or only recently identified that I have this problem. I didn’t want to accept my misery or my sadness. I wanted it to go away. I hated Radical Acceptance.

The last stage of grief, similarly, is acceptance. I think I hate that one too. It makes it sound like you’re okay with it. But there’s nothing okay about my grandmothers or my uncle being gone. But I am out of ways to be angry about it. Anger just seems to make me tired.

In the serenity poem, which people with addiction often find themselves coming across, it asks God to grant them “the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” A wise man said that he only learned the true meaning of the poem when he realized he was playing God, and he had to let go of control and let things be. Maybe I too am just playing God, pretending I can change the things I don’t like. But I’m no god. I can barely scratch items off my to-do list. Maybe I can’t change the world for the better. Maybe I can’t save anyone. Maybe I can only find my own happiness. Is that really all I can hope for?

I can’t bring you back.

I can only miss you.