The Days We Remember

There are moments in your life where you can remember your youth incredibly vividly, as though it happened yesterday. Time moves on yet it’s tinged with sadness as you realize that every day that passes is one more day that separates you from that time of innocence. Then without warning, there is a moment where you realize without a doubt, the door to your youth is closed, never to reopen again.

My last remaining grandparent died in September at the age of 101 and with her, she took my youthful days of no responsibilities, never ending fun, and joyful naivety.

There is something that happens deep inside when you lose your last grandparent. It’s like the ties to the past have been ripped off and that’s it, the link to your history has been irrevocably severed.

As Timmy and I were on our way to a close friend’s wedding on September 25, I looked down at my phone and saw 8 missed calls from my dad. I knew then it had happened.

I have had moments over the last month of incredible mood swings, moving from sheer joy to a sadness that feels deep and unsurmountable, like even if I had the will, the tears might never stop.

Three weeks ago, Timmy and I went to a Mark Knopfler concert in Clearwater. Timmy had seen him the night before in Melbourne and wanted to see him again with me, even though I wasn’t really that familiar with his music. These were emotional nights for him as he remembered his father and their bond over his music. We sat down in a theater that hadn’t been updated since probably 1992. Clearly being the youngest in the room, I looked around and made a passing comment to Timmy, “Look at this sea of white hair.”

Within seconds, I felt the rush of sadness move up my spine, into my throat, and out of my eyes. Overwhelmed. Despondent. Inconsolable. I cried for hours, and as the music played, all I could hear was the sadness in the notes, in the voices, in the harmonies.

I of course have lost people before, some suddenly, some with more preparation. I never knew my mother’s father, but I remember when I was around 2 years old, probably one of my first memories, my mother answering the phone and collapsing into tears, my father rushing to hug her. What my mother ended up sharing with Timmy and I before we left to go to Spain for my Yaya’s funeral was that the phone call was from my uncle telling my mother that her father had died days earlier and they had already buried him.

Imagine coming home from your family’s first trip to Disney World and having that be the first call you take. Before cell phones, emails, instant ways to connect. He hadn’t been able to contact my mother and so the family had to move forward with arrangements. I can’t even begin to understand the depths of grief and guilt my mom went to then.

We lost my father’s parents when I was in college, one right after the other, 9 months apart. My Abuelito had been sick for a few years, colon cancer, and I was able to see him over Christmas break my first year at NYU. He remembered me briefly, one of the few moments of clarity for him, and I’ll never forget his smile as he looked up and recognized me.

But I’ll also never forget his frailty, round the clock assistance, diapered and incoherent, looking so infantile and old at the same time. He passed and without reason or explanation, my sister and I missed his funeral.

My Abuelita, who hadn’t been separated from him since she was nearly 14 years old, was damaged after that. Never again to be the Abuelita I remembered growing up, who so doted on me and at every waking moment, tried to fill me with food and love. She moved through the world slowly and painfully, as though the weight of my Abuelito’s passing hung on her like a heavy cloak.

She passed quickly, had a stroke and was gone by the morning. This time, my family went to Panama together to celebrate her life. She had an open casket, which I refused to see as I knew I would never remember her any other way than dead in a coffin. I could do without that visual.

Looking back, I remember being sad at their passing, thinking how fast they both went. But I also remember not feeling the sadness, not grieving,  but instead saying I was sad, saying I was in grief. At the time, thanks to the antidepressant I was on, I was numb to everything and everyone, unable to shed a single tear for anything. For being homesick. For missing my friends. For 9/11.

And now, I was unable to feel anything for my grandparents, the ones who had sat through my dumb dances and performances in the living room before bedtime. The ones who would play dominoes and copas with me, and who would tell their stories about family and love and history. The ones I saw only a few times every 2-3 years because they lived so far away.

I always had the sense that my father was angry with me for a long time afterwards because of my lack of emotion, which I’m sure he and my mother took for apathy at my grandparents. I had assumed that they realized that due to the antidepressants, I simply couldn’t feel. I hope my dad knows in his heart that I miss them greatly, a void in my heart that can never be patched.

I am grieving over my Yaya in a very different way. First of all, I am actually grieving, which is a huge relief to be able to feel anything at all. But it has also felt like a dam breaking, one from which all of the emotions I couldn’t feel for my abuelitos is hitting me all at once.

Sitting there, in that concert hall with Timmy, I felt like I was drowning.

Grief can sometimes feel like a light breeze, swirling around you and reminding you of its presence. Other times, grief can feel like a lead smock, the kind you wear in an x-ray machine, a weight so heavy that it cements you to your seat, cutting off oxygen, and making you immobile.

My Yaya’s funeral started with an open casket viewing, which I wasn’t prepared for after having spent 7.5 hours in the air, straight to my aunt’s to change clothes, straight to the funeral home. I also chose not to see her so that I could remember her the way I always knew her: white hair in rollers, dressed impeccably, nails done, makeup spotless, ready to impress, even if she was staying home to crochet.

She would come stay with us in Atlanta usually 4-6 months at a time while I was growing up. She would be there, cleaning the house, crocheting, or watching Univision when we got home from school. I remember she always said a prayer before sleeping and she never took her wedding band off.

She had the best stories, like the nudist who constantly invited her to a nude beach in Spain, but to whom she always politely declined. Or her gorgeous legs she said garnered her nonstop compliments when she walked to the market. She laughed with us when we poked fun at her, always when she tried to say anything in English, a language she didn’t understand. When Santa Claus came out as “Sando Khan”, or Disney World as “Sidney Gol”, or Michael Jackson as “Mickey Johso”.

I remember the way she danced when Spanish music came on, her smile when she saw our friends running to greet her, the way she couldn’t stop laughing when my father would crack jokes with her, her nightly beer because she didn’t really like wine, her love, her light.

And now I think of her absence all the time, like the flamenco show we saw last night at Columbia Restaurant. Our wedding that she won’t be at. The fiance she never met. My twin nieces she never held.

When the attacks happened in Paris last weekend, I had finished my TEDxUSFSP talk and was coming out of the ballroom on a high. I checked Facebook on my phone and immediately realized something bad had happened. It wasn’t really until the next day when I had time to read about the attacks that the fear and sadness began to overwhelm me.

Timmy and I headed to the airport for the Auburn vs. UGA game bright and early Saturday morning, and although I couldn’t care less about football, I was there to support him. But I shed tears in the stadium, sitting in the shade, sunglasses on. The whole time I struggled to put down my phone, to remain present, to be in the moment instead of far away in despair and grief.

Because although I didn’t know anyone in Paris, it was too familiar, this relationship I have with death now, it’s too close and too much a part of me. I began losing people I care about at 19 and it hasn’t stopped. 9/11, my grandparents, one high school friend, my best friend, another high school friend, three high school friends, four, five, my grandmother…it never ends.

I remember the panic attacks after Lindsay died, my first real brush with unexpected death. The inability to focus and move through the day normally.

Now, there are moments during the day where I am gripped with such an intense fear of losing my parents, I lose my breath. The anxiety holds me still and I can almost hear my own heart stop.

I miss my Yaya. I miss my friends. I miss my Abuelitos. I miss my childhood in a real visceral way, which is how I know that the door is closed.

I can’t go back.

The grieving never stops. The crying, however, does.

♥, VB

Feeling All The Feelings

The last few weeks have kind of made no sense. They have been a series of extreme highs and extreme lows, and from what I can tell, this is life in your thirties.

First of all, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reached out to Timmy and I after Jake’s passing. I know many of you had lost touch with Jake, and many of you also only met him for the first time at our party. Even if you didn’t know him, you knew that we loved him dearly. So thank you for taking the time to express your condolences not only to us but to Jake’s family. It meant a lot to all of us to know that so many of you were thinking of us and wishing for our pain to be alleviated.

Thank you also to all of you who forwarded my last post and shared it with others. Online, this is my little space to tell our story, and Jake’s passing has been a huge part of that story so far. I needed to get all that out, and it’s amazing the level of camaraderie you can find on the internet when you just tell your truth. I wasn’t going to sugarcoat my grief, and my grief is different from what Timmy is experiencing, and what Jake’s family is feeling, and what you might be feeling in your own life, but we share that common thread. We all know what sadness feels like, what loss is like, and I just thank you for reading my side of things.

After some finagling with Delta (who were kind as can be, yet charged what I’m told is a crazy amount of $$), we were able to make it back to Atlanta for Jake’s memorial service. It was completely worth it. We both spoke at the service, and the service itself was one of the most uplifting ones I’ve ever been to (which is so sad that I’ve been to quite a few). It was truly a testament to the kind of person Jake was and the kind of people we want to become because of him.

It did help tie up many past uncertainties for me because I ran into Clay’s parents after the service, who I hadn’t seen since probably middle school. I expressed my sadness to them about Clay’s passing, and Dora, his mother, just cried on my shoulder. I’m so glad I was able to tell them to their faces about how sad and how sorry I was that he was gone. I also ran into an old high school friend, with whom I was super close, whose father passed away last year from pancreatic cancer. I was unable to share my condolences with either of these families because the obituaries didn’t have forwarding addresses or ways to get in contact with anyone. So they remained deaths that I grieved on my own, without telling the very people who used to mean so much to me how sorry I was.

We missed the party portion of my Yaya’s 100th birthday in Barcelona; however my mom ensured that the entire family went back to my aunt’s house for an after-celebration. It was chaos and loud and just what we needed to get our minds in the game, so to speak. My Yaya was asleep on the couch, which is why you can’t see her in the pictures.

I did wake her up briefly when we first got there and tried to tell her who I was, but it was clear that she was overstimulated and had no idea who I was. Not that I was offended, but I was sad that I did miss her at the party where we were told she seemed like she was with it and present.

We were in Barcelona from Sunday to Wednesday, and boy did we pack it in. Timmy had never been, so we spent a full day, albeit CHILLY AS HELL, on two bus tours that took us all over the place. I was so glad that Timmy got to see what he did in the short time we were there. Of course he loved it. Like there was any other option.

I asked Timmy at one point if my family compared to his on the level of talkativeness, and his response was my favorite. He looked at me and slowly said, “Yes, but your family is louder.” Victory to the Spaniards.

Enjoy the photo dump. Especially enjoy it because all these photos were taken with my brand new, fancy schmancy, super nice camera, a gift from Timmy! Some of the captions are in Spanish, others are landmarks in Catalan because that’s how I know them. I would write them all in English, but BLASPHEMY!

We headed to Seville Wednesday evening and holy shit that city is incredible. We had never been, and we truly lived it up. Within the first four hours of that first night, we had the best bottle of wine we’ve ever had and promised to return to a restaurant because we made friends.

Ah, the perks of traveling with Timmy. He couldn’t care less about his level of fluency, his need to make friends with strangers transcends language and country lines. While I tend to keep to myself most of the time around people I don’t know, Timmy really forces you to be outside of your own comfort level. And because of the huge low of having to say goodbye to Jake, I’d say that all of the traveling we did while having to keep translating for Timmy was exactly what we needed this vacation. We had ZERO time to be sad, and that’s sometimes nice.

Notice all the “holy cow”s in the captions. The whole city was just holy cow.

By far, one of the worst drinks I’ve ever had was given to us at La Pepona, the restaurant we found on our first night and returned to on our last, especially after we found that it had been ranked #8 best Seville restaurant online (and we just stumbled upon it!!). It was an after dinner digestive and it was DISGUSTING. Timmy acted like he could get through it, and me, well, not so much.

Last Saturday was probably the longest day that ANYONE HAS EVER HAD. We flew from Seville to Barcelona on a 6:30 AM flight that saw me getting zero sleep the night leading up to it. Then it was Barcelona to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Orlando for a landing time of 12 AM.  I’m ashamed to say that on our drive back to Timmy’s place, we were so starved that we stopped at…I can’t even say it…McDonald’s. Oh God, the shame. We were exhausted, jet lagged, dirty, and hungry at 2 AM. The only thing open was that devil of a place. Oh the things you’ll do when you’ve gotten no sleep and have flown for a full 24 hours…

That was Spain, in a nutshell. The country is amazing, the people are amazing, the food is holy shit. Go if you haven’t, and return if you’ve been before. It’s worth it. We spent every moment doing something, and being able to be busy after a week of complete sadness was God’s blessing to us. We needed it not only to get our minds out of the sadness vortex, but to reconnect with each other, to remember what we love about life together, and what we need to do to keep this momentum going.

♥, VB