My grandparents experienced both these things.

Theirs was an enviable love. They married at an early age (as one did in the 50s), had three children all a year apart in age, and spent the next 65+ years living in a quaint roadside house in Kalisz Pomorski, a small town in northwestern Poland known for its abundance of tranquil lakes nestled amid lush, sun-dappled forests.

I picked mushrooms in these forests, chased stray cats, and more recently in April, stood in a clearing quietly marvelling at the beauty of it all. I didn’t yet know that my grandma would suffer a massive stroke a week after my return to Canada and be admitted to four separate hospitals, becoming trapped in a vegetative state that would lead to her death mere months later. And that my grandpa, a day after her funeral, would die of a burst aneurysm after being rushed to a local hospital.

How do you reconcile the fact that you’ve lost an entire generation of your family (my grandma from my dad’s side, who I didn’t know well, passed in her sleep a month before my mom’s parents’ deaths) in less than two months? That you saw them talking and laughing and now only suffocating silence remains? Their passing summarized in a quick phone call, a half hour sermon, a swift lowering of the casket, a grouping of wilted flowers. Items used so recently, now painful reminders in a house that has come to a standstill. A pair of glasses, a bag of chocolates kept near the TV, a half finished Sudoku puzzle, a stack of magazines, a sugar bowl. It is unfathomable. A ghostly, surreal movie from which there is no escape. Half heartedly I still hope it is a dream from which I’ll wake.

Because of my lack of faith, I now desperately search for signs. Signs that my grandparents are watching over me. I lost my wallet (a hand-me-down from grandma) hours before a flight, full of credit cards, bills, and personal information. It was returned completely intact. Is that a sign? Or just wishful thinking?

Wishful thinking or not, I continue to search. And I talk. I talk to my grandmother all the time. About my day, about my plans. I imagine what she would say, how she’d react to this and that. I’m reminded of her wherever I go— a grandma and granddaughter duo walking arm in arm down the street, a group of peonies nestled against a house, a piece of floral fabric. Crochet curtains, potted plants, crossword puzzles. Everything is a reminder of the woman I once knew, and admired. And similarly, reminders of my grandpa— I see him in the slow shuffle of older gentlemen on the street, in a beautifully tiled floor (he re-tiled my parents’ entire house at one point), in thick, cable-knit cardigans and reading glasses. In Ptasie Mleczko and rusted garden tools.

I remember memories from my childhood and beyond. Both grandparents were so heavily invested in my upbringing. Visits to their modest one bedroom apartment in Mimico, when they were still living in Canada. Taking walks by the waterfront with my grandma and buying polish donuts, begging her to let me eat one before dinner. She always relented with a smile. Grandma was laid back—a spill on the carpet or a broken glass was met with laughter, not anger. Being with her was a delight. An expert seamstress, she would always ardently examine whatever I was wearing, commenting on the cut, style, or pattern.

Grandma was my best friend and confidante. Although born in the 30s, her opinions and thoughts were contemporary. I could talk to her about my various dating escapades and heartbreaks without being met with traditionalist, old time-y remarks. Grandma was always busy, she always had her hands full. I remember with awe the precise and intricate crochet work she would make, examples of her time-consuming handiwork now seen in the two kitchen windows of my parents’ house. I remember her big fluffy bathrobe—she was the epitome of home, coziness, and laughter.

Memories of grandpa are just as vivid. Back when he still had both legs, dancing to salsa music at small family gatherings, taking slow walks out on the trail behind my parents’ house, hanging a heavy antique chandelier in my room that I had saved up for with money from my first job as a cashier. Grandpa had a quick, witty sense of dark humor about him, and you could tell he was a very thoughtful person. He was a talented multi-instrumentalist back in his day, and a master handyman. No project was too big or too small for my grandpa to undertake.

I believe I inherited traits from both grandparents—food pickiness from my grandpa, and his sometimes comically pessimistic outlook on life. Grandma’s chattiness and bright sociable spirit. What I wouldn’t give for just one more moment with each of them. To be able to pour them both cups of coffee and just chat to them about everything and anything. I still remember how they sat with rapt attention listening to me relay my life to them, all the way back in April. What seems like ages ago.

So, how do you prepare for the grieving of not one, but two grandparents? How do you fathom the way in which it happened? How do you cope with such a colossal, crippling loss as a non-believer?

I don’t have the answers yet, and it’s possible I never will.

All I know is that dying of a broken heart is an all too real phenomenon. My grandpa was head over heels for my grandma. He marvelled at her beauty, even when they were well into their 80s and stricken with various ailments. When his leg had to be amputated a fewyears ago, my grandma was unwavering in her support. Cooking for him, dressing him, and always letting him know that he wasn’t alone. He was wholly dependant on her as an amputee, and no one in our family could have predicted that grandma, such a strong and grounding presence, could die so quickly and unexpectedly.

With my grandma gone, my grandpa lost his will to live. Every nook and cranny in their house is heavy with the recent memory of grandma’s laughter. Windowsills lined with potted pink-leaved plants, a collection of coffee-stained mugs nestled in blue cupboards, bottles of homemade wine tucked away throughout the property. And the garden—brimming with fruit trees, peonies, hydrangeas, and daisies; and, my favourite—a number of rosebushes against the fence, spilling onto the driveway in an array of sorbet colours. Peach, raspberry, lemon. I really did “stop and smell the roses” whenever I was visiting my grandparents.

Every person that I’ve divulged my situation to so far has had a version of the same reaction. Dumbstruck shock, followed by a flurry of hasty “I’m sorry for your losses” and “if you ever need anything let me know”. Most people have a readymade reaction and welcome a change of topic simply because they just don’t know how to deal with someone else’s grief. I know because I was the exact same prior to this experience. I had never experienced a grief so profound in my life before, and couldn’t possibly understand the weight of it. Friends quietly wish that your sadness dissipates so they don’t have to continue to awkwardly console you. And that’s fine. I don’t expect to dwell on my grief in public, and I don’t expect everyone to give me a shoulder to cry on. But it’s the reaction of those closest to me that I am most vulnerable to.

Recently someone I know was quite insensitive to my grief, pulling a joke that trivialized my sadness.

I’m in no way at a point where I can make light of my situation. And I believe that I don’t need to justify my sadness at the moment. It will be frequent, it will recur. I don’t have a mapped out visual of what my emotions and mood stability will be like on any given day, because grief doesn’t follow a pattern. It is wholly unique to the individual.

Grief is a process. Grief doesn’t go away overnight. I’m prepared for it to continue to strike months later, even when I think I am fine. I’m prepared for it to seize me in a chokehold, and remind me of the irreversible losses that I’ve experienced.

With grief, there is no expectation to ‘be’ a certain way, just because you are not recovering at someone else’s speed. Recovery, adjustment, and acceptance lasts a lifetime, and looks different for every single person on this earth.

It’s been less than a month since my grandparents died. I take it day by day. On some days I can still laugh, but on other days I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and cry the day away. I’m learning to accept this as my new normal. I’m learning to be kind to myself, exercising self reliance and self care in spite of the pain. I know it’ll never be the same, and I hope that with enough time, my grief will lessen and become a reminder of the love and light that I was so fortunate to share with my grandparents.