Life is a weird rollercoaster. I was accepted into a graduate school writing program I’ve wanted to attend for years. I hadn’t applied before because one of the application requirements was to have a plan for what you want to learn during your graduate studies. If I’d attended graduate school immediately after college, my thesis project would’ve had something to do with vampires. That is not an exaggeration. I was writing musicals, and had no direction in writing goals.
Now I write about myself, and my focus in graduate school will be on memoirs of the ill and dying. My acceptance into the program was exciting news for my family and me. I was the first in my family to get a college degree, so the fact that I’m continuing my education is a definite point of pride for my parents.
Unfortunately, the same week I learned I’d gotten into grad school, in May 2013, we lost my grandma, my mom’s mom. She was diagnosed with cancer and then died the next day. No one got to say goodbye.
The timing made everything that much more challenging. It was days before Mother’s Day, and my mom felt like an orphan. For a while, I couldn’t stop staring at my mom, realizing that some day she will no longer be here. I just can’t imagine that day ever happening.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to be excited for my achievements when bad things happen. I don’t have the capability to just halt life to take it all in. I had scholarship essays to write. And because my body has no concept of being reasonable during times of life crisis, I developed cellulitis in my left leg. My dad had driven two hours away to help with clearing out my grandma’s apartment, and he had to abruptly drive back to take me to the doctor.
Being one of 31 grandchildren, I wasn’t incredibly close to my grandma, just by virtue of there being so many of us. (There are also 31 great-grandchildren. My extended family could be a small village.) I last saw my grandma on Easter, when she inquired about my recent trips for NHF’s National Youth Leadership Institute (NYLI), and we talked about me applying to grad school. (Read more about my involvement in NYLI in my previous post, Climbing the Steps to Community.) I know she was proud of me. The last thing she told me was how beautiful I was and that since I was a part of her, maybe she was beautiful, too. I know this is an odd thing to stick out in my memory, but it was a sweet moment.
To me, my grandma was a bit of a trailblazer. She was born half-Native American at a time when it was challenging for Native Americans to find employment. Her dad decided to pretend to be Caucasian, which he was not, to make finding employment easier. My grandma then grew up hiding her ethnic makeup—something I can’t imagine. In her adult life, her house was always decorated with pieces that reflected her Native American ethnic heritage—something she was very proud of. When my mom was young, she fought for girls’ rights to wear pants to school.
People sent me lovely, encouraging, inspirational messages while I was grieving my grandma’s passing and getting ready for grad school. I’m filled with gratitude, but at some point saying “thank you” really pales in comparison to what you really want to express. It’s as if “thank you” loses all sufficient meaning—they are just words.
Still, I’ve always been a fan of thank yous. I think people often feel undervalued, and a good “thank you” can mean a lot. So to anyone reading this who reached out to me while I prepared for grad school, or while I mourned the loss of my grandma, I hope seeing thanks in this space shows you just how much you’re appreciated.