Two years ago, my world stood still. On June 17, 2023, at 4 a.m., I received the call that would forever change me—my grandmother had passed away after two challenging years in long-term care. No matter how much you prepare yourself for loss, it always arrives like a wave, sweeping away the familiar and replacing it with silence.
Those final years were some of the most emotionally complex of my life. As a caregiver, I walked beside her through immense struggles. I saw firsthand how difficult—and often under-discussed—the end-of-life experience can be. But amid the hard days, there were beautiful ones too—unexpected gifts I still hold close.
I learned things about my grandmother I never knew. Like how much she loved singing along to Frank Sinatra and Johnny Mathis—songs that soon became part of our nightly routine. We’d listen together during my visits, her soft voice joining the music, her smile offering a fleeting sense of peace. In those moments, surrounded by music and memory, I felt like we were both holding on—to joy, to each other, to life.
For years, this date carried a very different meaning. It marked my thyroid cancer survivorship. But now, it holds a dual significance. It’s a reminder of how closely life and loss coexist—how celebration and sorrow often share the same space.
Yesterday, as I did two years ago, I went to Trader Joe’s to pick up her favorite flowers. I played our friends Frank and Johnny as I arranged the blooms at her grave, and found myself feeling both heavy and held. Later, I flipped through the photos she cherished—ones she kept close by her bedside. I wore her jewelry, the delicate pieces that still carry her energy, and tried to feel her presence in the quiet moments.
Grief changes over time. It softens, then sharpens, often without warning. But love—that remains constant. My love for her shows up in small, sacred rituals: in the music, the flowers, the ways I continue to carry her memory forward.
Here’s to my Oma—a woman who shaped my world, and who continues to show up in ways I least expect but most need.
If you’ve experienced the loss of a loved one or have been a caregiver, I’d love to hear the rituals or memories that help you feel close to them. Grief may be deeply personal, but sharing can often be the beginning of healing.
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