Saudade

2020 hasn’t been a good year for anyone.

No matter your race, sexuality, or religious affiliation — 2020’s crappiness has spared no one.

In May, I lost my aunt and my grandma all in one week. In July, I lost another aunt. This month, hours before we were about to hit the road to move my little sister into college, we were informed that my cousin had suffered a massive heart attack and died in his sleep.

Needless to say, I cringe every time the phone rings now.

Before losing my grandma in May, I didn’t know the first thing about life, but walked around like I understood it fine — I didn’t. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the life lesson I was about to get.

My parents had kept my grandma’s illness from me for a long time. When they finally told me how sick she was, I’ll admit, I was a bit resentful of being left in the dark. But the truth is, had I known just how sick my grandma was I never would’ve been able to fully enjoy the last good times I had with her because I most likely would’ve spent that time wallowing in the inevitable. But deep down, I think I knew everything wasn’t peaches and cream. My grandma’s health was declining. She was sleeping significantly more and becoming confused a lot more often — classic signs of liver cirrhosis.

In the days before my grandma died, I’d find myself just sitting and staring at her more and more, with this unsettling morbid feeling that I just could never seem to shake. Even on her good days, when we were watching one of our favorite movies or out riding around, with no real destination in mind, that lingering ache at the pit of my stomach was there trying to steal what little joy I had left. I knew my subconscious was telling me that something big was on the horizon, but I just couldn’t bring myself to confront it (not then, at least). I guess I figured if I confronted my concerns, they’d somehow manifest themselves.

One of the things I remembered most about my grandma was her ability to appreciate the little things. Me being my slightly cynical self, it would sometimes annoy me how positive she could be in the most adverse situations. I never could understand how she’d always manage to be so thankful and praise the Lord, when her whole body was literally failing her. I could only imagine the pain she was in physically (dying from cirrhosis of the liver, unrelated to alcohol) and mentally (having buried four of her own children in less than 40 years). But no matter what she may have been going through at the time — give her a porch and some sunshine, and all was well with the world.

If only I had the opportunity now to tell her that I finally know how…

Looking at movies has always been a major stress reliever for me. Working from home these last few months, I’ve probably watched more Hulu and Netflix content than my actual years of owning the two subscriptions, combined (a bit obsessive, I know). Watching movies was kind of my grandma and I’s thing, too. It’s crazy, but now I find myself fiending even more for a good movie. I think my current state of yearning is representative of my mind’s repressed attempt to take me back to a certain place in time when all was well. Much like the effect of smelling a certain familiar scent or stumbling across an old song from your childhood — for that moment alone, you’re transported back to a point in time that made you smile. That temporary moment alone, is priceless.

One day, in a desperate search for a good melodrama with an actual plot, I came across a movie called Nostalgia. In my opinion, it wasn’t the most entertaining movie in the world — aside from seeing Jon Hamm’s handsome face — but it did have one part in particular that moved me so profoundly, I had to write it down when I heard it.

Essentially, one of the supporting characters in the film dies in a tragic car accident, leaving her parents distraught and confused. One day, the girl’s best friend stumbles across the victim’s parents in a diner, who obviously appear to be grief-stricken. She stops at their table to offer her condolences. Then she pauses for awhile, as her own pain starts to set in. She starts speaking again; reminiscing on a time with her best friend that resonates with her more now than it did at the time. In her recount, she mentions a word called Saudade, which is defined as a melancholic, nostalgic longing for something special to you that is no longer there for you to enjoy in the same way.

I played and rewound, and played and rewound until I had written down the entire story as she told it. The weight and the irony of her coming to comprehend the full meaning of the word in relation to coping with the death of her best friend spoke volumes to me and my own heartbreak.

I had suddenly found the missing puzzle piece to that “how”.

My grandma died in my house. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d sit around and have to literally wait for my grandma to die. I remember the morning my dad lightly opened my door and whispered the words, his voice raspy, probably from fighting tears: “I think she’s passed.” His eyes were bloodshot red; my proud 6'2", strong, black father — crying.

I knew what had happened before he even opened the door. The hospice nurse had, in fact, warned us the previous morning that my grandma would be gone in 24 hours.

For the last four months I had woken up every morning before logging on to my laptop to work and lay in my bed listening intently for the sound of my grandma’s oxygen machine and the pitter patter of feet. If I heard the footsteps instead of the incessant roaring of the oxygen machine then I knew the moment I had been dreading for over a year now had finally come. But much to my relief, from late March on through April, God had thankfully proven me wrong.

Until that morning of May 9th, at exactly 6:30 am.

The moment I had been dreading for months now had finally come, and I felt nothing but calm. Almost immediately after my dad had left my room, I walked to the dining room, just as calm as can be, where we had set my grandma up a makeshift bedroom to make her feel as comfortable as possible during her transition (and also so my sister and I didn’t have to live with knowing our grandma died in one of our beds). I stopped at the opening to our dining room. My eyes were open shut. My mind was empty. I took a deep breath in as I took in the sight of my grandma’s frozen body.

Without saying a word, I walked over to my grandma’s oxygen machine and shut it off. For the first time in almost a month, you could hear a pin drop in the house, and that wasn’t just because of the absence of noise from the machine. No one — not my sister, my dad, or my mom — said a word for a long time. I went up and kissed my grandma’s forehead, which felt like ice against my lips. She smelled musty from the sweat of the night before where she had been perspiring while fighting against her last rounds with her failing liver.

I’ll never forget the plethora of emotions I felt as I sat beside her, taking her in one last time. I remember stroking her curly gray hair, and being fascinated by the familiarity of its softness even though the woman I knew was gone. I think a part of me felt like if I sat there long enough, she’d somehow come back and I’d wake up to realize this was all a dream.

I’d never get to kiss, or hug, or see that adorable flat, toothless little smile ever again. I didn’t have her anymore, but I did have all the good she left me with. My grandma was love and love doesn’t die, it takes different forms. All those sweet little nothings that once made us happy in life will also be the things to keep us alive in times of death.

My grandma lives on through my favorite classic R&B songs; through the 10,000 videos and pictures I have saved on my phone of her laughing and carrying on at cookouts ; through the countless stories me and my family reminisce on every day just to get us through ‘those moments’. I finally know why it often takes bad things happening for you to fully appreciate life: because if bad things didn’t happen you wouldn’t know how to stop and appreciate all the good things that have always been there.

Life as a whole ain’t always a pretty picture. As human beings, we crave control and stability; often overlooking the small details that make life worth living. The moments we share with the people or things we care about the most; the songs that touch our hearts the deepest; the books that transport us the furthest — those kind of priceless interactions, moments, or experiences are what charge our emotions and keep love alive. In the absence of good; in our deepest, darkest moments, what we must always remember to do is reflect. Taking a little time out from the “Now” to appreciate the “Then” every now and again is the only way we’re going to beat 2020.

But I know everyone’s different so I’ll just speak for myself. Getting by on the memory of better times (saudad-ing my way on through) is the only way I’m bringing myself to understand life, in all its bittersweet nostalgic glory.

Thank you, grandma.