I barely knew the first person who left me. She was beautiful, intelligent, strong. I knew that. She was also cancer-ridden. Lymphoma tore ravenously through her body until she was a thin and fragile casing of herself. The woman I had once quietly admired from across the room at every family gathering was dying. To this day I don’t remember a single conversation we ever had, but sometimes I find bits and pieces of sentences lodged deep in my throat, words I always meant to say to her, questions I always wanted to ask. My grandmother–her sisters, too–they all tell me I look so much like her. “You look just like Anne.” “I do?” “Yes, so much like her.” I tell them I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m not sorry my lips, my nose, my cheekbones, are formed in much the same way hers were. I’m proud to look like a woman who was so serene, so patient and resilient even as she faced a death so cruelly and quickly coming for her.
My father died a year and a half after his oldest sister did. How my grandparents kept steadily breathing was always a mystery to me. I anticipated one day opening the back door to their cozy one-level home built when trees and trails still ruled the outside terrain for miles in every direction, to find they had peacefully expired on their couch following afternoon tea, suffocated by the weight of such immense grief. To watch your first-born daughter suffer, and eventually die, and then, not two years later, to bury your son after an accidental drowning: how did a parent bear such unimaginable pain? They were quieter after Anne and my father left. Emotionally still as a stagnant pond in hot July heat, and yet still strong. Still together. For years to come they would remain steadfast in their belief that one day they would understand why they were forced to endure the misery of outliving two of their six children.
My grandfather left suddenly, after being diagnosed with a form of stomach cancer so rare as to be hardly ever seen in first world countries. He was an anomaly, and before that, he was misdiagnosed. Labeled with an ulcer, food allergies, improperly treated for two years before they realized his symptoms–his heartburn and inability to keep most of the food he ate in his stomach–were the result of a losing battle he had no idea he was fighting. One of the healthiest people I ever knew, my grandfather walked and hiked at least five miles a day, swimming, downhill and snow-shoe skiing steadily throughout his life. He was lean and quite tall, handsome. He never smoked, never drank. Two weeks after being diagnosed with cancer he lost consciousness in his bathroom and my grandmother rushed him to the hospital. It was only two miles from where I was living at the time and I went to see him that night. He looked exhausted, but was in good spirits and seemed resilient, his voice quiet and kind. He smiled and talked with me. He held my hand and kissed me goodbye, told me he would see me tomorrow. Neither of us knew it then, but that was to be our final farewell.
Stunning. Loved this.
It helps to write it out, doesn’t it?
this is very sad. i also know someone who was misdiagnosed with ulcers who actually had pancreatic cancer. she died just weeks after a proper diagnosis. she was 31, not too much older than i am.
You are KILLING me lately. (In a very, very good, cathartic way.)
This is amazing writing. I love it.
Again, terribly beautiful and terribly sad. Wow. I don’t even have any other words.
Your family has had to endure quite some grief. It’s beautiful how you can still put it all in words.
You have such a way with words.
Oh, sweetie. I have not experienced the losses you have. You are brave, you are strong, you are awesome.
xo
These posts are just so damn well written.
this made me teary but smile at the same time because of the love you wrote into it. i really, really admire your grandma. she sounds like an amazing woman! never stop smiling, never give up.
You have been through so much and so strong and brave. Thank you for sharing this with us. It is really well-written! You are amazing!
loved. this.
my god i loved this. and i can’t even imagine being a parent and losing TWO of my children in such a short time. can’t even imagine.
*Wishing I was a publisher, so I could give you a book deal.*
You write so well. It’s refreshing.
I’m so sorry that you’ve had to experience all this grief :(
This is so sad, but at the same time, so beautifully written.
Beautiful post, Kerr!
:( Heart-wrenching, but beautiful. Hugs.
once again.. what words can I have?
I was thinking of you after speaking to my friend tonight, and once again your post and its timing is hitting me *right there*. You’re either spying on me or a really fucking awesome writer.”