The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Tom Petty was right.

Friday evening, I walked out of work and my eyes immediately filled with tears as I made my way across the parking lot to my car. I had been in a funk all week, and found myself more than ever wanting (and sometimes choosing) to skip my usual nightly after-work skating or yoga routine so that I could go home and curl up under warm blankets with my cat and sleep. I chalked it up to a few weeks off from my normal schedule due to the holidays, and maybe a touch of seasonal affective disorder due to the record low temperatures we’ve been experiencing. When I started crying on Friday, unable to stop during my drive, after I parked my car, got inside and collapsed on my couch, I realized what had been wrong all this time. January 4th, the Sunday that began this week, was the day my grandmother went into the hospital two years ago and never came home again.

While I live a life that is so full of love and joy and people who care about me, many of whom I see every single day, the loneliness I feel right now is palpable, perched on my shoulder and accompanying me throughout my day.

There is a hole in my chest that nothing can fill, because no one else is her.

Even though this has already happened, and it’s over, every January it feels like the clock restarts and I am once again powerless to stop what is happening.

So many things have changed, and so many things have gotten better since that first January 4th. But it still hasn’t gotten easier. At least not yet.

Time does not heal all wounds. Time merely allows you to put perspective between you and the wound.

I have not yet gained the perspective I need to best handle the loss I feel when I acknowledge my grandmother’s absence.

But I take comfort in knowing that I will, and it will get better, with time.

Tom Petty was right.