Goodbyes From Spain

Carol Wickhorst was a complete badass. She often felt like a fictional character, that simply walked off the page to fulfill her duties as the worlds best grandma. She was prideful, stubborn, and one of the kindest people I’ve known. To be her grandchild was to be completely and unconditionally loved.

She demonstrated her love for me so plainly; it was never veiled behind tough love or hidden acts of kindness. Every time I saw her, every letter she sent, every package that arrived, she would remind me just how often I was on her mind and how dearly she loved me. I think this is rare with family. We often think that love is something that goes unsaid; that it’s demonstrated by actions. To hear it or read it on a page is a rare validation.

When I was younger, I would count the days until we would visit her. The six-hour drive would drag on because my excitement was overwhelming. She would make chocolate chip waffles shaped like Mickey Mouse, buying Peeps to stick on top. Every night, my sister and I would pore through her old costume box, dressing up before going out for ice cream. My sacred Week at Grandma’s each summer was made up of trips to Target to pick out new Barbies, hours spent painstakingly teaching me to quilt, and adventures to the kids' museum where I would solve mysteries and build water towers.

I’m not glamorizing her because she’s gone. When I was young, she was truly my favorite person on the planet. Whenever I fought with my parents, I told them that they couldn’t tell me what to do; only Grandma could. She was in charge of me because she was the only person I liked. As I got older, our relationship changed. It evolved into letter writing. I sent her pages about volleyball, babysitting, and school. She would respond with follow-up questions, updates on my Grandpa, and details of her adventures from brunch and quilting group. Then, as I grew into high school, we began emailing. I would tell her about my new favorite doughnut shop, and sure enough, a gift card to Dimos would arrive in the mail. When finals rolled around, money for coffee would appear. She sent me articles about whatever had piqued my interest recently and quotes of the day to remind me she was thinking about me.

In college, we circled back to letter writing. I could check in on her after my grandpa passed away, and she got to hear about my boy drama, school, and friends. After her stroke in March, I wrote her letters to be read in the hospital, sending her pictures of Cinder and my life at school.

I got to say goodbye before I left for Spain. We jailbroke her from assisted living and got ice cream, a testament to when we were all younger. Then, when she ended up in the hospital a week later, I got to hug her, hold her hand, and tell her over and over how much I loved her. She told me she knew, and not to worry.

I give all of this context because the past few weeks grieving her have been one of the loneliest experiences of my life. Grief is incredibly uncomfortable — to go through and to be around. I’ve been the person awkwardly patting someone on the back. And to be the person getting patted — for lack of a better term — sucks.

This past summer, I had the experience of grieving a friend surrounded by a community that had also lost this person. To laugh together and cry together. Now I’m experiencing the polar opposite. Every person in Spain had known me for less than a month. They knew nothing about my relationship with my Grandma or who she was. Beyond offering a hug, there was little comfort they could offer.

Moving abroad is filled with these exciting moments that you want to be utterly present for. Seeing the Crystal Palace for the first time, going to the Reina Sofia, traveling with friends. I haven’t slowed down for any of it; instead, I’ve leaned further into the distractions. I’ve heard that there’s no right way to grieve. And I’m confident, in some sense, it always feels isolating. But in the moments where I allow myself to think about the woman I won’t ever get to hug again, I feel like I’m breaking. I don’t think these moments are meant to be experienced alone, but living three thousand miles away from home doesn’t allow for another option.

Grief wasn’t something I had contemplated before moving to Spain. No one expects their loved ones to die. But it does make me realize that I need my family more than I thought. At twenty-two, I thought I was fully formed and ready to explore the world. I’m glad I’m here, but there’s a part of me that will always wish I had gone through this surrounded by my family. To celebrate her life together, and hold each other up while we cry.

The day she died, I went to the park with Cinder and watched the Magpies. Seeing two Magpies together symbolizes joy and good luck. They remind me how lucky I am to have had her as my grandma. Grief set aside, I’m thankful for all the moments I shared with her. Thankful that every time I see a Magpie, I get to think of the quilts she made, the letters she wrote, and just how much we loved each other.