Fuck it. Also, fuck Corona.
I lost my grandpa on my mom’ side two months ago. He fought a grueling and, thankfully, short battle against leukemia amidst all this shitshow we call a global pandemic. The last times I saw him we were way into COVID restrictions, so the closest to him I could get was when I disobediently touched his thin-skinned hand on the couch he was sitting on. That was it. My grandpa who carried me around as a child, who let me break all the rules in the world, who was my bestest friend for a long time in the early years of my life was gone. The man I have known for 31 years sobbed as he waved goodbye at me the last time I visited him and I couldn’t do anything. And that was the last time I saw him. Fuck this virus.
Two days ago my grandpa on my dad’ side fell and had to be taken to the hospital. He’s 94 now and has Parkinson’s Disease — among other complicated things that come with being ninety fucking four. I was getting ready to start my day when my mom knocked on my door and said: “grandpa is in the hospital, we are leaving,” and I — absentmindedly — asked: “which one?” “The only one you have,” she said. Oh, I haven’t gotten used to having just one now.
Today I went to visit him, the one grandpa I have now — still getting used to this shit. He is now at home, recovering from the quick hospital visit scare. He’s also been fully vaccinated for a couple months now and I barely leave my house, but I still hadn't had the courage to even stand too close to him.
As I walked into his tv room, it took him a while to process my presence and recognize who I was. When he did, he smiled, asked how I was doing and requested some help with the tv remote. “It’s always the damn tv remote,” he’d say.
And there it was: my quick, rare window of oportunity. Him being completely clear-headed and me being braver than usual. So I walked towards him and gave him a hug (mask on and all, I still don’t play with this shit). And it felt like 300 pounds had been taken from my shoulders.
He said to me: “you’re responsible for this family now.”
Me, 31 going on 13 in my head. Responsible for the family. Someone’s clearly out of their damn mind.
We talked about a few things, including some marriage advice from him — I guess he’s heard about Mr. BFF by now: you know, family gossip — and I left. Knowing that now no matter what life throws at us, I know have hugged him. I did it. We did it.
Life might never get back to how it used to be. God knows most of us can’t even scratch our faces with our bare hands without a minor freakout still. But I have faith that these little freedoms we are getting now, the hugs and the being together, are the most crucial part of a very long, painful, hard healing process we are about to embark on.
It’s not the international travels (although I’d very much like to be closer to the boy right now), or the fancy restaurants, or the packed clubs/shows/bars. It’s the hugging your family and the proper goodbyes that truly matter. Things that we took for granted before and that we had to live without for way too long now.
So with the freedoms we are starting to get, make a list: who are the people you’re gonna hug first? Who are the ones you’re gonna look straight in the eyes and say “I love you” when you get to be with them again?
Make a list. Plan. Dream. The time is coming soon. And may we never have to have half-assed goodbyes in our lives again.
