The First Week Without Her

I found her voice again. I haven't been brave enough to press play twice.

Just eight days ago, we buried my grandmother.

For those who have never watched someone you love slowly disappear because of cancer, I hope you never have to. Cancer doesn’t just take a life. It steals pieces of a person long before they’re gone. It steals conversations, traditions, laughter, holidays, and all the ordinary moments you always assumed there would be more of.

Cancer fucking sucks.

This was my first full week living in a world where my grandmother no longer exists. Even typing those words doesn’t feel real. It feels like I’m writing about someone else’s life. Somewhere in my mind I still expect my phone to ring with her checking on me, or to walk into a family gathering and see her sitting in her usual spot.

Instead, there’s just... silence.

I promised myself this week that I wasn’t going to run from the grief. I was going to feel all of it. Every wave. Every tear. Every memory.

Then Tuesday came.

I went back to work, and my coworkers greeted me with hugs, kind words, and more love than I expected. I’ll never forget that. It reminded me that even in the middle of loss, people have an incredible ability to carry each other.

But once the day got going, something strange happened.

I realized I was distracting myself.

Every time a memory of my grandmother surfaced, I’d immediately find something else to focus on. I’d check my phone. Start another conversation. Throw myself into work. Think about tomorrow instead of yesterday.

Anything but sit with the pain.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. It was my brain trying to protect me from something it didn’t know how to survive.

Then another feeling hit me.

Fear.

Not the fear of death.

The fear of forgetting.

What if one day I can’t remember the sound of her voice as clearly? What if her laugh starts to fade? What if I forget the little things that made her who she was? What if the memories become blurry around the edges until they’re just stories I tell instead of moments I can actually feel?

A few days ago, I stumbled across something I forgot I had.

Years ago, for reasons I can’t even remember now, I saved a voicemail from my grandmother.

I pressed play.

The second I heard her voice, I completely fell apart.

For a few moments, she wasn’t just a memory. She was here again. She was talking to me. It felt like I had been given a tiny piece of her back, and I couldn’t believe that years ago I had the foresight to save something so ordinary that has now become priceless.

But here’s the part I wasn’t expecting.

I haven’t played it again.

Not because I don’t want to hear her voice.

Because I do.

I’m terrified of what it will do to me.

I know the second I press play, the grief will come rushing back all over again. So now I find myself protecting this little recording, almost like I’m protecting a part of her. Knowing it’s there brings me comfort. Listening to it feels like opening a wound that hasn’t even begun to heal.

That thought terrified me more than I expected.

People always say, “Time heals.”

Maybe.

But time also changes memory.

And that’s the part nobody prepares you for.

Grief isn’t just missing someone. It’s fighting to hold onto them while time quietly keeps moving forward. It’s wanting the world to stop for a minute because someone who meant everything to you is suddenly gone, while everyone else keeps living like it’s just another Sunday.

I’ve realized grief isn’t a straight line. One moment you’re laughing with friends. The next, a song comes on in the car and you’re fighting tears at a red light. You think you’re doing okay until you catch yourself wanting to call them or give them an update on everything, and reality crashes back into you.

This is grief.

This is what it feels like.

It’s confusing. It’s exhausting. It’s heartbreaking.

And if you’re in it too, I hope you know you’re not doing it wrong.

I’m only a week into this new reality. I don’t know what grief will look like a month from now or a year from now. I just know that I loved my grandmother deeply, and love doesn’t disappear just because someone does.

Love you, Mommom.