Death found me for the first time when I was 14.
This age was an exciting time for a young girl, full of innocent crushes and a flourishing independence. Though I hated hockey - couldn't stand it, actually - an innocent crush blossomed into puppy love one cool September afternoon, more than decade ago, at a game in my hometown.
The boy was perfect - blonde hair, blue eyes, and the smile of an angel. My heart beat faster and the palms of my hands became real clammy any time I heard his voice, which was often. We would talk on the phone for hours, running up our parents' phone bills. Though he lived in a town two hours away, and we never really saw each other, we thought we were in love.
And, who is to say we weren't in love.
The dictionary defines love as: an intense feeling of deep affection. There's no doubt that we felt a deep affection for each other. On some level, I'm sure it was love. Not the love I feel in my heart for my significant other today, or the love I feel for my dog, or the love I feel for my best friend. But, the love you feel for a boy when you develop your first crush. It's something completely unexplainable and something you never forget.
We went on our first "date" to the hockey game. My heart fluttered in my chest; my stomach jumped into my mouth. I nervously wiped my sweaty hands in anticipation of holding his.
Our hands hid beneath a jacket sitting between us, as my finger tips brushed his. My heart skipped a beat. Or, maybe it skipped a few beats.
That night I went to my girlfriend's house for a sleepover. The whole time I gushed over my "beau."
Death was the furthest thing from my mind that night. But death, as it does, has a way of robbing us of our most pleasurable moments in life.
That night the darkly-clothed grim reaper took my grandmother's soul. As my heart was beating a million times a minute; hers was beating for the last time.
Doctors called my family late that night; they rushed to Winnipeg where she had been staying in the hospital.
I didn't go because I was too busy being a teenager.
I wasn't home so I missed my goodbye.
Dad picked me up late in the afternoon the next day. He looked beat down, as if he had been awake all night. His light blue eyes were surrounded by red, as if he had been crying. But my dad hardly cried. I had only seen him cry when I was eight, and he told me he wouldn't be living with my mom, my sisters and I anymore.
When he pulled into the driveway of his significant other's house, it took him longer than usual to get out of the car. I knew something was up, but thought maybe they just had a fight.
A fight could not have been further from the truth.
Before we went into the house he called me over to him, gave me a hug and began to cry.
"Nanny died last night," he sobbed.
I instantly dropped to my knees.
The first time you experience death, it's incomprehensible.
You hear about, you learn about it, but you can't begin to understand it until you experience it.
And at 14, I was not ready to deal. I pretended I was, but I wasn't. Not even close.
Though I doubt age really has much to do with how one handles death. Dad was in his late 30s at the time and he wasn't ready to deal either.
My heart is torn each time I think back to my first date, as it never comes without the memory of loss. But, I do try my best to remember it from time-to-time, as it reminds me of Nanny, too. Then, I can go on thinking about all the exceptional woman she was. Though our time together was short, she left me with many memories and made a quite remarkable impression on me.
I can't help but smile when I bake buns, work in the garden or see a stunning pansy, hollyhock flower, or peony, as it reminds me of her. And if I can go on remembering her, it's like she never left.
I recalled this moment in my life this week to help raise awareness of heart disease and stroke, as it Heart Month. Please see my article on heart health for information on how to help yourself and loved ones.
