A Hard Goodbye

I met my love, moved into our first home, and became a family during this pandemic. Because of my own joy I forgot that my family could suffer. My grandfather contracted the Covid-19 virus when the vaccine was beginning to be distributed. My grandmother and he were hospitalized when public officials who laughed at the risk were given the vaccine that just months prior they’d dismissed as unnecessary. The nurses were desperately trying to get them into the same room while passing messages between them. My grandmother was sent home, while my grandfather was dependent on oxygen. My grandmother suffered without him, her love of 51 years. My grandfather was induced into a coma, while my grandmother healed.

Our updates came from messenger calls and secretive texts outside the family chat. Not everyone is equipped to handle death. My aunts thought I could; I’ve learned otherwise. My grandfather died after the family came together on a zoom video call. We all watched together as my grandfather struggled to breathe over a video. We told him how we loved him, how we respected him, how we’d miss him. For the first time I understood why funerals are filled with only good memories. It’s hard to think of flaws when you’re begging for them to stay. I was alone in a house while my family kept me company, reminding me that it’s ok to feel even if it has to be through screens.

My grandfather died after our ceremony, having been taken off life support. I spent the week blaming myself for not calling more, not telling him what I said at the ceremony when he was still here. “I can see him hugging Jesus,” my grandmother had said. I’m no longer religious, haven’t been for years, yet that hurt. His last words were a truth and a lie: “I’ll be home in a few days.” I envy the religious. You don’t say goodbye. I refused to, instead raging at the world, at those fuckers that got a vaccine with a smile on their face. My grandmother is making a full recovery, or so I’m told. I am comforted that she’s surrounded by family in person. I know she’ll always feel the hole he left in her heart, but at least now, when we are supposed to be far and apart, she is loved and surrounded by her children. I’d be a liar if I said I was ok now, but I’m still raging. I’m still thinking of him and crying. I still want to personally punch every republican that said this was a hoax and still blame them for the death of my grandpa and every American they neglected. It’s been a year since this crisis started, fuck! 

It’s not just science fiction anymore, this is dystopian horror.

by Ashlee Stephan