Oh, God, I’m tired. I am a kind of tired that even the most pleasant summer afternoon nap cannot remedy.
More than that, I am angry. God, I know creation is your right. You claim sole authority over each life, but God, even still, I am angry.
I am in no shape to carry the heaviness of this growing grief.
I’m thankful that I was too tired to cry last night. I’m thankful that I was able to fall asleep quickly, before the anxiety-marred breaths could overtake me.
I cried less today. In fact, I barely cried at all. I suppose getting back into my day-to-day is to thank for that.
Originally, my grandmother wasn’t going to go to the hospital with me. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure that I was going to go either. You would think that with each visit, it would get a little easier. And though I cried less yesterday, and even less today, it was no easier. I felt no lighter, no more peaceful than the first two nights.
The same thoughts and regrets and pain pull me down.
My grandmother lets silent tears slip. She keeps getting up to get closer, to look into his face, though she barely has the strength to walk. God, I am so tired. How much more tired, then, is grandma?
I take her home and go up to her apartment with her. She has 반찬 for me to take home. As I step in, I ask her to make sure to eat. I am in constant fear that she might collapse. And, I feel like a dirty hypocrite because all I’ve eaten are, in total, four Hawaiian rolls – 2 for breakfast and 2 for lunch. From the door, I can see into the bedroom. I see her bed and the corner of my grandpa’s.
The pain of her being alone attacks me again. And I wonder if her heart shatters at night, as mine does. I wonder what kind of sound hers makes. Does it sound like mine? Is it quieter? Louder? Are her insides as messy as mine? Or is she finding more peace in God than I am?
I feel utterly helpless.
He won’t be here for chapters and milestones that I know he wanted to be here for, or would have liked to be here for.
He won’t be here for when I make my biggest big girl purchase thus far. He won’t be here for me to take around in my (soon-to-be) new car. Although not the primary reason, my grandparents are one of the definitive reasons for deciding to purchase an SUV instead of a hatchback. I know Junior has always been too small for them. They always had a hard time lowering themselves to get in.
He won’t be here when I start graduate school next year. He won’t be here when I graduate. He won’t be here when I find a job. Oh, how I wish that I told him that he was an instrumental part in me deciding to pursue social work.
He won’t be here for me to excitedly visit and announce that I have a boyfriend (if the day ever comes). He won’t be here for my wedding (if there is one in my future).
My birthday is coming up in a few weeks. I hate it. I hate that an anniversary for my life is coming while here he is, losing life, bit by bit. I know it’s stupid. I am still blooming. He’s lived a full life of 89 years. Yet, I can’t help but hate it. I hate the idea of my birthday, much more than usual. I want no celebration. I want no birthday wishes. I don’t want it to come. I want to pass over it quietly. Though there is the chance of something happening and us not being able to go at all, I’m glad that my birthday this year will be spent with just my mother, watching Wicked as a late birthday present for her.
I was optimistic during the first day. I planned for the change I would employ once he’s out and home. More visits. More conversation. More pictures.
And just like that, within another night, all of that was ripped out of my hands.
And maybe that’s what’s driving a lot of my anger at God. I don’t know.
When I’m driving, my CCM playlist is essentially the only thing I listen to. I thank God for other people’s blessings. I continue to track His blessings and provision for me. But, in my times of intense loneliness and darkness, I continue to refuse to talk to Him. It’s a stupid, irrational, and unhelpful obstinance. But obstinate I continue to be.
It still feels wrong to be going through life while my grandfather is literally dying.
His once rotund tummy has deflated almost into nothingness. The rapid change comes at me like a barrage of sucker punches. Every time. Each day refuses to be easier or merciful to me. Although each day is another day that his heart is still beating, each passing day is also another day closer to good-bye. I cannot pause today and live in it until I feel ready to move forward.
Accepting that he is dying does not make it any easier, it does not bring my heart and spirit any peace. I question my faith.
But as I sit next to his bed, crying, I can’t stop myself. I let a prayer of desperation slip, asking Him to pull a Lazarus.
I’ve messed up. I betray my acceptance of reality. I forget my confidence that God is getting ready to take him.
Grandpa, even though there is so much I haven’t done for you yet, so much that I wish you could stay to witness, once you’re by God’s side, none of that will matter anymore, right? None of the small joys of this world can compare to the infinite joy you will have in heaven, right? Anything you felt like you missed out on will fade into triviality when you are basking in God’s glory, right? This earthly life is not one you will miss once you’re Home, right?
It’s not wrong for me to keep living the life still left for me… right?
But God, I don’t know if I have it in me. It’s difficult to get myself to eat real food lately. No matter how I sleep, how much or how little I cry, I am exhausted in the morning. I dread getting up. It feels impossible to do anything without feeling guilty.
I didn’t think that when the time came for my grandparents, that it would be this difficult. I knew I would hurt, but I didn’t expect to feel so crushed by anger, regret, and sorrow.
Oh, God, I am tired. So tired.