Dear Abuelita,
Today marks seven years since you were born into eternal life. Like most well-meaning, cringe-worthy cliches, "time heals all wounds" seems to be true for me, especially when I consider those first few (or several) months when I would just burst into tears at the thought of you. Yes, most of the time, I carry on with the memory of you in my heart as if it were a nice ornament on the Christmas tree--it's pretty, it's worth looking at closely, but I tend to not focus on it too much but rather look at the tree as a whole.
Because the truth is that, if I look too closely at the ornament, all the memories start rushing in like a storm surge. The tide comes in and batters my heart with grief, and in those moments, time doesn't seem to have healed any wound. I am swallowed up and spat out seven years back, in my dark Durham room, where I read a message telling me you have finally passed after 8 hellish weeks of agony, where I lie on the thin industrial carpet and weep quietly so no one can hear me through the wall. When I really think about you, like actually really think about your absence, the scar tissue tears open and my heart bleeds anew.
Today's anniversary of your death is hard, and I find myself shaken to the core when I remember the last time I saw you, the last time I spoke to you as you faded away in that hospital bed. But there are random days throughout the year when this pain sneaks up on me, and I must confess that it has been happening a lot more than usual lately.
I enrolled in nursing school with a certain smug confidence that I wanted to be a pediatric nurse (even though I have very little experience or knowledge of what that entails). So image my absolute and utter surprise when I started seeing your face on every patient I encountered at the hospital during my clinical rounds (and no, none of my patients were children). My first patient ever died in her hospital bed, by herself, only about an hour after I had "met her" (she was unconscious the whole time I interacted with her). I had the honor of praying for her soul as I assisted in giving her body post-mortem care and getting it ready for the funeral home to take her. As I gently wiped her body clean, I knew it was the body of my grandmother, who I did not get to see taking her last breath and whom I did not get to prepare for burial.
The next time I was in the hospital, I took care of a 60-pound patient whose body was shutting down due to malnutrition. She didn't speak English, so when I came into the room and greeted her in Spanish, her eyes opened wide. I asked her what was her name. She replied, "Concepcion." "Que hermoso nombre," I said, and to this day my eyes fill with tears when I remember the light that illuminated her emaciated face as she smiled back at me. That was your smile, Abuelita, when you saw me visiting you at the hospital. You weren't expecting me to travel half the world to come, but there I was. To this day, that smile rips my heart to shreds. Concepcion's smile did the same. The next time, it was an old man's pat in the hand. An elderly lady's chuckle. A 45-minute conversation with a lonely soul.
Every time, traces of you appeared in all these sick people. Every time, mementos of your love for me emerged in every patient I served. I saw myself bleeding and didn't turn away from the mess that was my heart. I didn't try to patch it up or bury it under indifference or busyness or other worries. Instead, I watched the hurt grow larger, throb, and gush. And in the process, I saw how much easier it was to love with Christ's love when I allowed my heart to be broken for you, for them, for what breaks His heart. And every time I watched myself with them, I had the certainty for once in my life that I was where I was meant to be. Every time I put myself at their service, I knew I was making an act of atonement for the way I left town without going back to the hospital to say good-bye to you because I was too scared (your most cowardly grandchild, after all). My heart bleeds and heals simultaneously. Certainly, this is a paradox worthy of a God who humbles himself even unto death.
I am certain you walk the gardens of paradise with the Lord. I'm sure you enjoy your mom and sister's company. You spend timelessness in praise of God, and you obviously are a fluent English speaker now, since I'm writing to you in English. I wish I could tell you that I've done much in these past 7 years, but they truly do feel like wasted time, for the most part. Even so, I think I would have liked you to be a part of them here on earth, and mostly for the sake of your children, who have sore hearts over missing you, over longing for your embrace.
I found a photo of you as a little girl, with your parents and your siblings. It was striking to find bits and pieces of my face on yours, tia Emma's and Nana Cristina's. I wish I could tell you that I'm doing you all proud, but I'm not sure. Most days I am just grateful to get by. Missing you savors strongly of incurable homesickness. I know this feeling will only go away when we meet again, and while I long for that moment with anticipating joy, I must confess I would rather prefer for that moment to be many, many years away. Your most cowardly grandchild also happens to be the slowest doer, so she's going to need a long time to make you proud. I pray that she may make amends for her cowardliness by laying down her life for those ordinary, little Christs who remind her of you.
With everlasting love,
Your Cristi.
