Grief Doesn’t End. It Changes Shape

When I was a kid, summers meant going to Toronto with my family – a time full of laughter. One of my favourite memories is hearing my grandpa’s voice call out down the hallway, “McDonald’s!” In an instant, four kids would run down the stairs, hair still messy and pajamas on, hearts full of excitement. Ready for a hot Happy Meal to land in our laps. That was our Sunday ritual.

 

As the years passed, we all grew up, and life brought its challenges. There were the usual sibling fights, but my grandpa was always the steady heartbeat that kept us grounded. I remember walking into my grandparents’ kitchen one day and hearing him cough – rough and unexpected. My mom, with her usual mix of care and worry, said, “You need to take your vitamins! You’re not getting any younger.” My aunt nodded in agreement, but my grandpa just laughed, brushing it off with that quiet strength he always carried. “I’m fine,” he said. “You just worry about yourselves.” A few weeks later, everything changed. I got a call from my mom. Grandpa had lung cancer, and it was aggressive. The words hung heavy in the air, confusing and frightening. I didn’t fully understand what it meant, or what would come next, but one thing was clear: we needed to be there for him.

 

That year became a blur of flights between Calgary and Toronto. I watched my grandpa face this battle with courage and grace. Chemotherapy brought difficult days and long nights, orange pill bottles lined up on countertops, and the unspoken hope that each treatment might go our way. I remember sitting with him watching our favourite baseball team, the Toronto Blue Jays, lose once again, when he suddenly had a coughing fit. He looked at me and said, “You should go now.” He never wanted us to see his pain, never wanted to lose the independence he always cherished. The nurse started coming by more often, and with every visit, the sadness in the room thickened. No one dared speak about what we all feared. The injections and endless tests became his new routine – cold reminders of what was actually happening. I watched quietly as my grandpa faded away.

 

Only once did I find the courage to tell my grandpa I was scared. His eyes, tired, met mine. He squeezed my hand gently and said, “I know… but we can get through this. I believe we can get through this together.” We shared a quiet fist bump – hugs were too painful for him now. That fragile moment of hope was the last conversation I ever had with him.

 

We all knew that the end was coming. We whispered it in our hearts but dared not say it aloud. Still, I hoped for a different ending. But on September 16, 2022, my grandpa passed away peacefully, with my mom holding his hand tightly.

 

Since that day, no holiday has felt the same. The house still echoes with his absence. But slowly, we’ve learned to carry him with us. We laugh at old stories. We yell at the TV when the Jays lose. Grief doesn't end. It changes shape. It softens at the edges. And even though the pain remains, so does everything he left behind.

 

So now, when I see something that reminds me of him, I know that love and grief aren't opposites; they are intertwined into the fabric of resilience. 

 

I believe that love endures after loss. 

 

I believe that we can all carry our loved ones in our hearts. 

 

I believe.