When I was fifteen, in May of 2004, Granny was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had smoked most of her life and had only recently quit, only to find out that she was going to have to start fighting hard.

My parents, siblings, and I lived in Tennessee, while the rest of my family lived in Florida. We immediately made the trip down to see Granny. When we returned home, we received a call that my granny had a stroke. She had been sitting at her kitchen table planning my cousin’s 20th birthday (June 1st). One minute, she was talking; the next minute, she wasn’t even sure who she was or what she was doing. She didn’t even know exactly who my Pawpaw was, a man she had been married to since she was seventeen.

When we received the call, we basically headed right back to Florida. Granny was in the hospital at this point, and she was recognizing some people. When we went in her room, she recognized everyone in the family. Everyone but me. She couldn’t remember my name. Pawpaw kept saying, “Megan,” but Granny kept calling me “Vicki,” which was her niece’s name. Even after saying my name, she somehow couldn’t repeat it. I had a hard time holding back tears, but I knew she recognized who I was, and she was getting so frustrated because she couldn’t say my name. She started crying and said, “Ohh! I know you. I know your name!” Eventually, she finally said my name and she was thrilled that she said it.

It was hard watching her struggle. She was very child-like in those moments. Once she could say my name, it was as if her demeanor changed a bit. She looked happier. Dad immediately decided that we would move back to Florida. Inside, I was struggling with this idea because I didn’t want to leave my friends. I think Granny knew it would be hard on me, because as soon as Dad told her we were moving back to Florida, she looked directly at me and said, “I’m sorry, Megan.”

Just moments before, she couldn’t even say my name; in that moment, though, she somehow knew me and knew what I was feeling.

Granny had a stroke because she had a brain tumor–something doctors didn’t see in previous scans. In the next couple months, life was a blur of moving to Florida, leaving friends, watching my Granny get better and then worse. Eventually, though she had chemo and radiation, the cancer moved to other parts of her body. There were days that I thought she could fight through it, and there were days where I prayed for her to feel no more pain.

Granny passed away on August 6, 2004. I have many fond memories of her, but one of my clearest memories is of her apologizing to me while she was in so much pain.

And something I wish I would’ve said in that moment: Granny, you have nothing to be sorry for.

One of my favorite things to do when Granny was alive was cook with her. I remember her phonecalls to tell me that she was making chicken & dumplins. I’d run next door and she’d cover the counter in flour. I was always in charge of flattening the biscuits, and she even let me drop them into the boiling water. I loved her chicken & dumplins, and I wish I would have remembered her “recipe” more clearly. (She never really followed recipes–she just knew how to cook.) Of course, I suppose I assumed I would be able to call her up when I got married one day to say, “Granny, I have no idea what to make for dinner. Tell me how to make your chicken & dumplins.” That will never happen, though, so I’ll have to try to remember the recipe on my own.

I think the hardest part of her not being here anymore is that I can’t call her up when I’m going through a rough patch to say, “tell me what to do.” It’s selfish because I know she’s much happier where she’s at, hand-in-hand with my Pawpaw, but she was always the one to give me guidance. Instead, I now think, what would Granny suggest I do in this situation? That’s how I’ve lived my life since she passed away.

Granny and I used to make the stuffing/dressing together for Thanksgiving. We’d toast the bread in the oven and tear it apart over a huge storage bin. (We made a lot of stuffing!) We’d add the eggs, salt, broth, cornbread, and everything else that makes stuffing so delicious. Mix it with your hands, she’d remind me. Even though it would cover my hands in soggy bread crumbs, I’d do it because I knew that love was the secret ingredient, as she always said. It was always a hit at Thanksgiving lunch/dinner. A few years before Granny passed away, she let me make the stuffing by myself. She reminded me of everything that went in it, but I did everything by myself while she peeled potatoes and baked pies and made the turkey. I’m glad she let me do it by myself that year. Since she’s passed away, I’ve only made it a few times (with my aunt reminding me of everything that needs to go in it), but it just never tastes the same.

I loved cooking with Granny. One of her favorite and easiest things to eat, though, was a tomato & miracle whip sandwich. Yesterday, Husband and I picked two tomatoes out of the garden, and as soon as we got inside, I sliced one. The warm tomato would have been perfect for one of Granny’s tomato sandwiches, and I wish she were here so that I could give her one. Instead, I’m going to go home this afternoon and cut into the second tomato. I’m going to take two slices of bread and cover them in miracle whip and add the tomato. Then I’m going to sit back and relax and send a message to my aunt to remind me how to make Granny’s chicken & dumplins.

And I’m going to say a quiet thank you to my Granny for reminding me that love is the secret ingredient to life.

I see them in everything–the fallen leaves; the warm rays of the sun; the breeze blowing through the trees; my own eyes when I look into the mirror. It’s hard not to when they were such a big part of the first sixteen years of my life. Sometimes, it makes me smile as I remember jumping into the leaves she raked up into big piles every fall. Sometimes, it makes me sad that there never seem to be enough leaves anymore. Sometimes, it makes me smile if I forget to put sugar in my tea, remembering that he had a passion for unsweet tea. Sometimes, it makes me sad that I’ll never be able to make him a glass of unsweet tea again.

This time seven years ago, I was watching my granny deal with her diagnosis of cancer. She was only diagnosed at the end of May, and at this point, we were all positive she would beat it. If this were 2004, though, I’d be holding her lifeless hand in just less than two month’s time. It all went so quickly, yet time moved in slow motion. Watching her struggle every day was difficult for me. I was only fifteen at the time, and she was only in her fifties. It was painful to watch her struggle for breath as her lungs continued to fill. I remember her losing the sparkle in her blue eyes at one point, and I knew it was going to be over soon. Before she died, the sparkle came back, and she was ready to go. Happy, even. How could I be sad for her departure when she was glowing with so much happiness? She passed away within days.

I held his hand at her memorial. She told me to be there for him, her husband–her best friend, my pawpaw. The next several months were a blur. Life seemed to keep going, though I was sure it should have stopped at some point. I turned sixteen and he gave me a card–my first birthday card without her name signed to it. I remember watching him from a distance, even though I was sitting right next to him. He went through his normal routine, and we tried to make the transition easy for him after losing his wife of forty-or-so years. I could see sadness growing in his eyes, though. We moved home soon, and he came to visit with my cousins. He was sick, but it was just the flu. We thought it was just the flu. That was until we had to rush him to the hospital. Before he left, he said “I’ll be back soon, babe.” That was the last time I saw him. He died from congestive heart failure, though the doctors called it a broken heart.

I couldn’t be sad. I was more angry than sad. I was still mourning the loss of my granny, and now my pawpaw was gone, too. It was too much to handle, but I had to be strong. I felt like I failed my granny by not keeping my pawpaw protected, but what did I expect? He didn’t want death to do them part. He wanted to be with her in life and death. And so he was. I had to feel peace that they were together once again and will now be together eternally.

I don’t dream of them often. I always thought it was because they were visiting the dreams of people who needed them more–their son, my dad; my mom; my siblings and cousins. I promised to be the strength for them, so I always tell myself that they’ll come to my dreams when I need them most.

I want to tell their story. Their story of love and life and death. I want to tell how it effected me, but I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with it. I have a hard time deciding where to begin. I have a hard time remembering all the details of their deaths when I’ve spent so many years trying to forget. I have a hard time remembering they’re gone.

I’m on my knees. I need them now.

I often fear the holidays. I write about how it will never be the same.

Thanksgiving was once my favorite holiday. It still is, in some ways, but it doesn’t have that same ring to it. It isn’t something I look forward to (anymore), nor is it something I dread. It just is. The last Thanksgiving I spent with my paternal grandparents (together) was in 2003. It’s been six years, and really, has it been that long? Has it taken me six years to come to a point where I can say, “I’m okay. I can breathe through it”? I’ve spent six years holding my breath through holidays, holding back tears. Even just last year, I wanted to crawl in a hole and let the holidays pass by me. What has changed? Have I become more wholly myself?

It has actually been seven years now, as that was written last year. I’m not sure I’ve become more wholly myself, as I could write that same post today and feel those same feelings.

Granny and I always made the stuffing together. The last year she was alive, before she knew it would be her last Thanksgiving, she let me make the stuffing on my own, showing me that I could do it … That I was old enough, finally, to take something on without her. Little did I know that I would soon have to take on life without her … But I have been, and I will continue to do so. (Without her physically, at least.)

When she was diagnosed with lung cancer in May of 2004, I was already prepared. I knew it was coming one day. Afterall, she had smoked for decades. What I wasn’t prepared for was the day she wouldn’t beat it, just three months later. I don’t blame her, though. She didn’t just give up.  She was ready, and her body was tired of fighting. She fought long enough to show me the true meaning of life–to love wholly and to live without regrets.

Although I still feel sad each holiday, I don’t allow it to overcome me anymore. I try to push through, and I try to make the best of it. I’m turning twenty-two next week, and I’m hoping to continue learning how to become more clearly myself.

So, this Thanksgiving, I will enjoy it without regretting that my Granny (and Pawpaw, her husband) are no longer here. On my 21st birthday (in just less than a week), I will love wholly and be thankful for another year of life.

I don’t remember how old I was–I do know that I was younger than eleven, though. I always feared that my birthday would be forgetten because it falls just a week after Thanksgiving. I would remind people of it at times, but I taught myself not to care much about it just in case. Granny always called in the morning, though, to sing “happy birthday” to me over the phone. (She didn’t have a beautiful singing voice, but I miss listening to it, sleepy-eyed and with a smile on my face.) This particular birthday, though, she called and told me to come over. We had lived next door, so her house wasn’t very far, and I made my way over. When I walked inside, everything was dark. I followed a glow coming from the kitchen, though, and that glow turned out to be from candles sitting on top of a homemade birthday cake. Granny was hiding behind the counter, and when I walked in, she jumped out to say, “Happy birthday!” On that birthday, she gave me a handmade photo album, and it was the best gift I was ever given.

On my sixteenth birthday, just a little over three months after Granny died, I thought no one would remember. We had all been walking in a haze since her death, and I wasn’t even expecting anyone to remember. I woke up to a quiet house, and as I made my way to the same kitchen that my Granny had surprised me in, I saw a pink envelope sitting on the kitchen table. It had my name on it, so I reached for it. I opened it to find a birthday card from my Pawpaw–the first birthday card without Granny’s name on it. It was bittersweet. I could see Pawpaw watching me from his bedroom, and he came into the kitchen to hug me. My older cousin then came in and said, “Happy birthday, brat!” and in that moment, everything felt normal.

My Pawpaw was a hard worker. He usually arrived home around seven or later, and Granny always had a plate from dinner in the oven, keeping it warm for him. Pawpaw was my absolute favorite man in the world (alongside my Dad, but since they were father and son, I figured they were allowed to be equal). I looked forward to the moment I would see him coming down their long driveway. I waited patiently by the window, watching for his car. As soon as I caught a glimpse of it, I’d run to the kitchen and get him a glass of unsweet tea (his favorite). I’d help Granny put his plate at his spot at the table, and I’d put his giant cup of unsweet tea and the daily newspaper there as well. I waited for him to walk through the door, and I immediately hugged him. He always walked to his bedroom first to remove his work shirt, and he’d pull his glasses from his pocket and sit at his chair to read his paper while he ate dinner.

I waited while he read his paper, excited for him to finish so that I could tell him about my day, and I could hear about his. It was my absolute favorite time of day, and I look back on it with fondness. I followed this routine until we moved away (we had lived next door to them), and even then, I’d look forward to the evenings that we took trips to their house so I could follow the routine all over again.

I’d love to make him a big glass of unsweet tea today.

“Even when I dream of you, the sweetest dream will never do…” -Aerosmith

My granny, Nancy, found out she had cancer in May of 2004. On August 6, 2004, less than three months after her diagnosis, she took her last breath. Those three months consisted of emotions I didn’t know the human mind or body could convey. When I think back on my life, of life-changing moments for me–moments that completely changed the person I was–I can only think of those months.

It’s been six years since I saw her. It’s been six years and one day since I last spoke to her. I write about her often, but only in pieces. She is who makes up most of my favorite posts on this blog.

My granny was young when she died; she was in her fifties. At the time of her death, I was fifteen, and while I thought I knew everything, I knew absolutely nothing. I was selfish. In those three months, I went through periods of denial; I went through moments of determination–she was going to get through this; I went through moments of wanting her to die just so I could get on with my life. Like I said, I was fifteen, and I was selfish. I thought my entire world was shattering, but I failed to look on the outside. I failed to see how terrified my granny was. I failed to think of my dad, who was quickly losing his mother–the woman who gave him life. I failed to look into my pawpaw’s eyes and see the sadness that engulfed him because he knew he was losing his wife, his best friend. I only looked within, and I had rough moments.

It’s hard for me to recall a lot of how I felt in those three months, though I can remember what I felt when she did pass away. First, I felt relief. I was finally at a point where I wanted her to no longer feel pain, and I wanted to go through the healing process. Then, I felt anger at a god I wasn’t sure I believed in anymore. Then, I felt anger at myself for being so selfish. I soon felt intense sadness, and I didn’t know what life had to offer. I eventually found peace, but it took a long time. I’m not even exactly sure how long. I changed; I grew up. If you ask people close to me, they would tell you that I was a completely different person after that point in my life.

My granny was amazing woman. She was/is the most amazing woman I will know in my lifetime. She was opinionated, and everyone loved her. Everybody knew her as “Granny,” even if they weren’t related. She always had a table (and countertop) full of food at dinnertime, and there were always leftovers. She loved my pawpaw with an immense passion that I envy at times–I only hope I love Husband with that same passion. She loved him in a way a woman loves her husband after being with them since age seventeen. They were best friends, and when my pawpaw passed away eight months after Granny, I wasn’t surprised. He wanted to be with her, and that was their purpose in life.

Right before Granny died, she was happy. She was ready to go; she wanted the pain to be gone, and more importantly, she wanted to move on from this world on to a better place. Today, it’s a little easier, but I still miss her. I think about her daily, even if it’s just a passing thought, a fleeting memory. I plan on telling my children about her, and though I know I can never do her justice through my words, I will always continue to try.

It’s been six years since she took her last breath, but she’s still breathing.

I remember the day Granny died. I remember being there the day before, telling her we were leaving to get ice cream (we weren’t; we were leaving for the night to stay with my aunt). She knew the truth, and she knew she wouldn’t be there when we got back, but she played along and told me to bring some ice cream back to her. I told her I would, and that’s the last conversation I had with her. The next morning, she was gone. One minute, she was breathing; the next minute, she was no longer of this world. I saw her lifeless body soon after that, and it wasn’t the easiest thing to endure. I was fifteen, and I felt like my world had collapsed around me.

Eight months later, Pawpaw came to visit. We went to the aquarium, and he wasn’t feeling that well. Later that night, he asked to go to the hospital–something he wouldn’t have done if he wasn’t worried something was wrong. He told me he’d be back; he didn’t come back. He died of congestive heart failure in the hospital bed. I was sixteen. He was my favorite man in the world, and Granny had made me promise to take care of him, the love of her life. I wasn’t hard on myself when he died–by that point, I knew it was a part of life, and I was becoming numb to death. I was angry, though, that two people who I loved with my entire being were gone.

I’m twenty-one now. As the years pass, it gets easier to live without them–because it has to. In the past, I was confused. I had some really bad moments.

Today, I miss them. I miss them every day, but it’s different some days. I often try to forget that year of my life because it’s sometimes easier to do so. There are a few things I won’t forget, though, because I don’t want to: the way they held hands in bed while Granny was sick; the way Pawpaw cried when Granny was saying her goodbyes–it showed me exactly what true love was; the way they kissed when they knew they’d be apart for a little while; the way Pawpaw sat next to me at Granny’s memorial service and squeezed my hand, allowing me to realize I didn’t have to try to prove my strength around him–that I could cry now. They’re all sad moments, but they were the perfect example of love.

Those memories are also a reminder of where they are now–together for eternity. Wherever that may be, it’s exactly where they want to be.

I haven’t figured it all out yet. I’m making progress, but I’m not there. I suppose I’m okay with that. I have to be, otherwise pessimism will creep up on me. Really, I’m not a fan of pessimism. Even if the world around me is falling apart, I try to remain optimistic.

It’s sad, really. I’m honestly completely over the idea of “death.” It still scares me sometimes, but when people die around me, I feel no emotion. I think I felt too much pain when Granny died in August of 2004, and then Pawpaw (her husband) died eight months later, unexpectedly. I honestly felt like my world/life was over at that point. I felt as if I could never be who I was before, when they were still breathing. That’s mostly true. I’m not the same. I was once so free and in love with reading and writing. Now, it seems I don’t allow myself to feel those great emotions again, which has caused my writing to fail. When someone dies, I sometimes start to feel the pain creeping back up, but then I almost literally shrug my shoulders and move on. I don’t want to go back to that place–the one I was at six years ago.

When they first passed away, I didn’t dream about them. I thought that maybe I would forget the way they sounded. I dreaded the moment I would forget how blue Granny’s eyes were or the way Pawpaw smelled. Those moments never really came. I told myself that the reason I didn’t dream of them was because they were visiting the dreams of others who needed it more than I did. It took years before I finally dreamed of them. (I hate that I can say “years,” knowing that they’ve been gone that long, rather than just months.) Now, I dream of them weekly, sometimes multiple times in a week. Last week, I had a dream that Granny wrapped me up in a tight hug, not letting me go, even though I had some place to be. I dream of seeing them in their house, as if nothing ever happened. I dream of loving them even more than I did then, knowing they could be taken from me in an instant.

Knowing that Husband will never meet two of the most amazing people in my life breaks my heart. Knowing that my future children will only know them through stories I tell them breaks my heart as well, and I fear I won’t be able to tell the stories well enough to do them justice.

Most of all, though, I fear the possibility that Heaven doesn’t exist, and thinking of never seeing them again breaks my heart in the worst possible way.

“We do not change as we get older; we just become more clearly ourselves.”*

I hope that is how I’m living. I hope that I’m becoming more clearly myself, rather than going down the path that isn’t wholly me. How can we tell? Is our life planned out for us, written in permanent marker? Or do we have the pencil, allowing us to draw/erase our own path? Are we genetically pre-determined, some higher being knowing just what we’ll become?

Thanksgiving was once my favorite holiday. It still is, in some ways, but it doesn’t have that same ring to it. It isn’t something I look forward to (anymore), nor is it something I dread. It just is. The last Thanksgiving I spent with my paternal grandparents (together) was in 2003. It’s been six years, and really, has it been that long? Has it taken me six years to come to a point where I can say, “I’m okay. I can breathe through it”? I’ve spent six years holding my breath through holidays, holding back tears. Even just last year, I wanted to crawl in a hole and let the holidays pass by me. What has changed? Have I become more wholly myself?

Granny and I always made the stuffing together. The last year she was alive, before she knew it would be her last Thanksgiving, she let me make the stuffing on my own, showing me that I could do it … That I was old enough, finally, to take something on without her. Little did I know that I would soon have to take on life without her … But I have been, and I will continue to do so. (Without her physically, at least.)

When she was diagnosed with lung cancer in May of 2004, I was already prepared. I knew it was coming one day. Afterall, she had smoked for decades. What I wasn’t prepared for was the day she wouldn’t beat it, just three months later. I don’t blame her, though. She didn’t just give up.  She was ready, and her body was tired of fighting. She fought long enough to show me the true meaning of life–to love wholly and to live without regrets.

So, this Thanksgiving, I will enjoy it without regretting that my Granny (and Pawpaw, her husband) are no longer here. On my 21st birthday (in just less than a week), I will love wholly and be thankful for another year of life. If she were alive today, she’d pass me a beer; knowing I’m not a fan of beer, she’d say, “Try it, Meg … because you may not have a chance tomorrow.” So, in honor of her, I might tip one back, unwillingly, and with the blue sparkle in my eye that matches hers, I will continue to live without regrets–becoming more clearly myself.

*I’m unsure where this quote comes from. Ironically, it was in a spam comment on my blog.