In August of 2021, my Grandpa Bruce’s wife found him dead on the side of the road after he didn’t return from a routine dogwalk; I didn’t get to say goodbye. Nearly four years later, my Grandpa Don was placed in hospice care mere weeks before his death. I, once again, did not get to say goodbye. I was bitter. Since these deaths, I have felt that if I could just have five more minutes with each of my grandpas, I would be satisfied. I could say just how much they meant to me. I could apologize for not calling or visiting enough. I could assure them that I love them and that I will carry them with me for the rest of my life. I didn’t get that chance.

This past August, I finally got the chance I wanted. I got to visit another grandpa, Gramps, knowing that it would likely be my last visit. Gramps’ health has been steadily deteriorating and, while the timeline is uncertain, he is not long for this world. For the first time, I could say goodbye. And yet, I walked away feeling just as incomplete as I did staring at Grandpa Don in his casket — angry at myself for not calling enough and scared I might break down from all the guilt, anger and sadness. This same feeling overtook me the day after my visit with Gramps. The visit wasn’t special in the way I imagined. No tearfilled declaration of the meaning we gave each other — it’s not really his style. No final goodbye — he’s still alive. No resolution. I got more than the five minutes I wanted with Grandpa Bruce and Grandpa Don — I got nearly twelve hours, yet that same void persisted.

I don’t know what grief is supposed to feel like. I suppose there isn’t a correct way to grieve as long as I do grieve. For me, it usually appears in the form of thinking about missed future opportunities. Grandpa Bruce will never come to another band concert or graduation with his tiny silver camera. He will never see me get married if I do so. I will never share another delicious meal with Grandpa Don as he passes compliments to the chef — at least in this life. I may never get to hear another silly story about Gramps’ career. I miss these things. When I am reminded of these now missing pieces, I am dragged to a void of unrest and discontent and I have no clue what I’m supposed to do with those feelings. 

I cooked food; Gramps cleaned his plate. I told a story, Gramps told one right back. I hugged him, said “It was so great to see you.” He hugged me back and said the same. The last words I said on my way out the door were, “Bye! I love you!”

Maybe I left something critical unsaid. But, truthfully, those four simple words gave me more closure than the rest of our time together. Looking back, I’m quite certain that those were the last four words I said to Grandpa Bruce and Grandpa Don the last time I saw them as well. Those are the most common four words I say to friends and family when I leave. That knowledge brings me more comfort that any other exchange could have. If my time with Gramps had been grandiose, perhaps I would have regretted my lack of such an experience with Grandpa Bruce and Grandpa Don all the more. Instead, I now know with reasonable certainty that the last words we exchanged before they died were “I love you.” They love me, I love them, and there was never any doubt. 

I’m really scared of death. While I believe there is a better life waiting for me on the other side, the uncertainty gets to me some days. It is terrifying that there could be nothing after death, or worse, an eternal suffering because I chose to worship the wrong deity or fooled myself with a false devotion to Christ. I fear the potential that I will leave people behind with this same void or a false hope for reunification. However, I want to believe that someday, I will be reunited with my grandparents. That the only tears will be tears of joy as we embrace and worship together into eternity. But spiraling in the existential uncertainty of the afterlife will only take peace from me, not restore it. Instead, I choose to seek solace in those three simple words. Words I will forever echo to those that are most important to me, again and again until they are sick of hearing it: I love you.