On Homecoming and Anticipatory Grief

First of all, an apology for not being around these last two weeks. At the beginning of February, I burnt out for a plethora of reasons but one of the biggest ones is being the oldest daughter of an oldest daughter, which means I carry responsibilities and sadness in heavy measures. On the 2^nd of February, I came back to India after 4 years and in the last two weeks, I’ve visited 4 cities, caught 4 planes, 3 train journeys, done 2 major events, a revisiting of some serious childhood trauma but the most important thing I did was see my grandparents after four long years. Homecoming, I think, for most of us is a deeply complex thing – especially when you know that it may be the last time you see someone you love beyond comprehension or words.

For me it is my grandparents. The gift of being the eldest child is if you have grandparents,  you get to know them longest. The tragedy of being the oldest child is you have to watch them go after all that time full of love. For artists, sometimes it is even more than that. You see, for me, my grandfather is my storyteller’s voice. The person who gave me my first stories, who made me fall in love with poetry and story. He is the roots of this tree I have become, the one who handed me Mahmoud Darwish’s work at 15 and told me “let this change you”. His mind was sharp as a tack. I don’t remember a dull moment with him all through my twenties and if you asked me for my heroes, I would name him in a heartbeat. This was a man that was still weightlifting at 85 despite his arthritis.

I am telling you all this because this is everything dementia took from him. His ability to share stories. His ability to tell jokes. His capacity to be present in the same room as us. His laugh, infectious and full. I saw this clearly when I returned, hugged him and he just barely registered it was me.  

The thing with anticipatory grief is, the knowledge of what is coming even when they are still with you. You watch them fading right before your eyes, you know you won’t have long and there is very little you can do.  You think about what you will do after they are gone and then feel guilty for even thinking about an after. You try to tell them everything you wish you had said when they were still completely there with you. You recall their memories for them because they can no longer remember them. You remind them who you are and who they are several times a day, of the love you have shared. Sometimes, you tell them the stories they told you as a child. You watch pieces of them go day by day and wish you could grab them and bring them back. One day, they will forget your face. But they may remember you as a kind voice and gentle hands which held theirs and told them how much they are loved. And perhaps that is all healing can look like when you are waiting for the inevitable. No one promised us mortality was fair. But we were promised love and to heal, truly heal, holding that love close has to be enough.  

I promised my grandfather I would be back to see him, knowing fully well that the next time he sees me, he may not know who I am. But I will tell him the stories he told me when I was a little girl. And I will give him the memories of our walks and joyous meals together. And I will hold his hands in mine and remind him how much he is loved. And he may not know me. But perhaps his own storytellers voice will speak back to him when he is lost. Perhaps he will find comfort inside the words of courage he gave to me when I was afraid. If nothing else, I hope I can give him back some of the hope he gave me when I needed it the most. I hope that even if every memory fades, the warmth of how much he is loved holds him close till the very end.

Hug the people you love close. Tell them how much they mean to you. Have more meals together. Laugh harder together. Don’t be afraid to cry in front of each other. Remember we were never promised forever which means you must love as much as you can now.

With verse and warmth,

Nikita