Grief

Before starting this post I want to warn that this post is potentially triggering for depression and suicide. Proceed at you own discretion.






















Today my grandfather died. Not only did he die, but he committed suicide. How he did it, doesn't matter. What matters is that he is dead.

When someone dies there is always a rush of people around the family, trying to fix things, trying to help, to ease the grief. When someone dies in this situation there is also other people around, policemen, forensics, judges. We had to wait for hours until they could take him away. Hours that were spent trying to calm down my grandmother, who had found him. Hours spent wondering why he did it. Wondering how he did it.

I don't care. Yes, my grandmother is hurt because she's left alone. Yes, we all hurt because, although he was ill, we weren't ready for this. No one is ever ready for this. He had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson and never accepted the diagnosis. I want to think that he thought that was the only solution, that he did think about my grandmother when he planned for it, that he didn't want to be a burden to anyone. Part of me understands it, part of me has at one point wondered who would miss me if I were no more. Part of me wants to go back in time and stop it.

It doesn't matter. It was his choice. A choice that has hurt many people, but his choice in the end. Yet, I wish I could have helped. I wish there had been something that I could have done. And it was not my fault, nor anyone's, but when something like this happens, you wonder if you could have done more.

However, his end was not his life, and I will not remember him by his end. And yet, I will be constantly reminded of it. And my family will be constantly reminded of it, both my grandmother and my mother who have been battling depression for years will be reminded of it. This is what we have to care for from now on, he is gone, but we are not, we must keep on, we must embrace life, we must live for what he couldn't.