Losing someone is never easy. People will tell you “it gets easier,” but the harsh reality is it never does. It’s been almost five months now since I lost someone very important to me— my grandpa, or as I call him, my Da. I remember the day like it was yesterday. 

It was Sep. 22, right after I finished school for the day. I was working on my finance homework when my dad walked into my room. This may not seem out of the ordinary, but my parents are divorced and I was at my mom’s house that day— so seeing my dad walk in was already a red flag. 

He walked up to me and hugged me. While he did, he whispered in my ear that the angels took Da to heaven. Tears began flowing down my cheeks as I sat there. Still as a board. My voice began to crack as the crying turned to sobs.

Memories started to flood my mind. How every visit he’d slip me $20 and say, “Don’t tell your dad.” How he’d always set pickles down in front of me and smirk while I was at the dining table— we both loved pickles. How he’d always mention old photos of me and how he’d wait for everyone else to open their Christmas gifts before he did his own. All the times he took me to Ponderosa and all the nights I spent with him and my grandma when I was younger. 

“I’m never going to see him again.” That thought was repeated over and over in my head. “I’m never going to see him again.” My role model. My grandpa. My Da. Gone. 

The next day, my dad and I went out of town to go to my grandma’s. I stayed the night that night and slept in his room. I cried until I fell asleep. I saw him two weeks before— little did I know it’d be the last time I ever saw him. 

He was 85 years old. I had 16 years that I got to spend with him. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to let go. I’m still not ready to let go.

In the months that have gone by, I’ve struggled— but it’s gone unnoticed. My closest friends, even my family, don’t know how much it still hurts. It’s the times where I’m just laying in bed or sitting and thinking that are the worst. That’s when my mind has time to wander. 

I avoid talking to anyone about him, which seems awful, but it’s my way of coping. Once someone starts talking to me about him, the emotions flood back and my eyes start to swell with tears. It’s been five months and I still can’t think about him without my emotions taking control. 

People will tell you it gets easier, but it never does. In the end, the pain is the same as when you first find out. You just learn to live without them. You learn to continue on with your life to make them proud. Everything I do, I try to do for him. I work hard to make him proud because I know he’s looking down on me. He always believed in my future; and I won’t let him down. 

Everyone will go through a loss at some point in their life. No one will ever be ready for it. I wasn’t— and the pain hasn’t numbed. This is by far the worst thing that has happened to me in my life yet, and it has made me work harder to make him proud. It’s made me not take time with my family for granted. One moment they’re here— the next they could be gone. I won’t make that mistake again.