One

One year ago, I waited for the inevitable.

One year ago, for the first time ever, I cursed the fact that my husband got into school 2500 miles away from home.

One year ago, I spent three hours on the phone with a friend who was kind enough to keep my mind occupied and my composure sound for my son.

One year ago, I got a call late in the afternoon. It was the end.

One year ago, I went numb for an entire afternoon and evening, not remembering much, except snapping out of it late that night to drink tequila and cry.

One year ago, I started planning a trip back to California for all the wrong reasons.

One year ago, my grandmother died, and the guilt from not being there at the end, not saying goodbye, and not treating her with respect when she was alive began to eat at me. It was not assuaged until I started seeing a psychologist, but I still don’t think I’ve fully given up that guilt.

Sometimes I feel like I have no right to mourn her as much as I am. What exactly did I contribute to her life, especially when she was older? What exactly did I do to prove myself a good and loving granddaughter? I certainly can’t think of anything. Sure, I gave her the first great-grandchild, but did she get to see him as much as she should? Probably not.

I had a dream about her last week, early Friday morning. She was here in Chicago, but she was ill and in bed. Even in my dream, I could feel myself losing patience with her. I woke up and silently cried, knowing that my conscience was telling me yet again how I had failed at being a granddaughter.

I have so much more I want to write about her, but thinking about it right now is giving me a sick feeling. It’s taken me almost an hour to write just this bit because I’ve had to get up and pace around, or stop because the tears started falling. Maybe in a couple of days, I can write about the flashbacks I’ve been having to holidays past with her and my grandfather. It can’t be done today. I can’t bear it.