There's nothing in the world that can prepare you for the loss of a loved one and even if there were guidelines, they'd be absolutely useless because every situation is so uniquely their own. 

It will be exactly one year on January 7th. One year since I've received his bear hugs, his kisses on my cheeks, his jokes, his unexpected yet timely wisdom, and his outpouring of adoration for me that used to wrap me in the most secure and warm blanket of love. I can't say that the hole in my heart has grown from housing anything other than a barren emptiness and, to be honest, I don't think it will ever be fully healed. But regardless, we survived- just barely hanging on by the tips of our fingernails.

This has been the absolute worst year of my life. Honestly, just throw the whole year away. Regardless of the fact that we are in a global pandemic, a true and unexpected curveball there, but just when I had started to feel somewhat decent and full of life again, boom, my mom got diagnosed with cancer. You really can't make this stuff up. Sometimes you just have to laugh at how cruel of a joke it can all be but also because if you don't laugh, you'll just keep crying. 

But nevertheless, I persisted because in the words of my papa, "Don't let the bastards grind you down."

He should be proud though; I went from crying every single day for three months straight to only crying every day every 4 weeks, then down to 2 weeks, and now, I only cry a handful of times a month. For a woman who hates to discuss her emotions and allow others to see her feeling anything other than joy, this has been overwhelming and a push in a direction I needed but didn't want to necessarily take. For me, it's always so much easier to focus on others and how to help them. Understanding the importance of communicating my feelings with other people is a vital lesson I was never willingly open to, not for anything but I didn't feel comfortable in feeling and looking anything other than strong or put together. But this year, I've never leaned more into my family than I ever have in my life. We've learned how to openly discuss the hardships of loss, healing, moving forward, and everything else in between.

It's weird to even preface this next phrase without it sounding strange but to say I'm grateful to have lost my papa in January is not to be meant on a light note but rather from a place of privilege. My whole entire family was able to fly in for the services, I got to find comfort in the arms of my closest friend who rushed home to be there for me, and we got to host what felt to be a never-ending line of souls he had touched during his life at his wake. Is there a word beyond heartbreaking to even describe the hallowing feeling that consumes me when I think about all those who have lost a piece of them yet can't even be with them in the hospital, visit with them one last time or host the funerals they deserve? 

Last time, I burst into tears as 'happy birthday' filled the air and rang through my ears at a dinner celebration with friends. This year, even though I can't have that same type of get-together, I promise to not shed a tear. Although I may never feel whole again, I know that I will continue to feel lighter. I was spoiled to have you as my papa for 22 years but now, you get to be a papa to my brother and sister again. Now, it's Lauren and Tyler's turn to experience all the wonderful things that come with knowing Libby Ferracane. Oh, and it doesn't hurt that you're reunited with the other gracious souls we lost in addition to you this year. A true party up there in heaven, I'm sure of it. 

This year, I've realized a few things: I still absolutely hate your house; your chair catches my breath, your dinner table makes me sob, and every time I walk in there, your presence is so apparently absent it's almost suffocating- not to be dramatic. I also apparently now hate dinner- this took me a while to pinpoint, but, as of late, I found that it's because I know I'll never get to have you right at my side again, just how it had been all my life, oh and I hate that everywhere I look in my own home, I can picture exactly where you're supposed to be. But in the same sense, I also absolutely adore that familiarity. To feel so fortunate to have had such a present and strong bond with my grandparents. I may never feel that reassuring shake you used to give me as you held my hands as we sat together and chatted, I'll never see the admiration in your eyes as we talked about life, or physically see the bond you shared with Jack; man, that boy worships and admires every single bit of you. (I cannot even explain that heartache of your absence to him, you were his best friend.) I may never get those moments again but I have found solace in what I do have. 

Almost immediately, and with permission obviously, I raided your closet. Having your clothes and being able to wear them make me feel so close to you again. The closest I will ever come to your hugs. Aunt Tricia also made all of the grandkids' and great-grandkids' teddy bears out of the famous staple white polo. He's also great for a hug too. 

I cannot wait for the day where a smile becomes my first instinct when I see or hear something that reminds me of you, rather than the cloud of tears that well up in my eyes. I cannot wait to not have to relive every single detail of the day you passed on- I would like to burn the images of running through that hospital, thank you very much. And I cannot wait for this same healing for everyone else. Until that day, I know I have to go through the crashing waves before I can feel the calmness of this storm. We made it through the firsts of everything this year. 

I still feel you and receive all your little messages you're sending down to me. I guess you could say this is me taking my pen and writing love letters to heaven in return.

"The odds of existing are slim, so the odds of you and I existing at the same time must be next to impossible, and I think that's beautiful. Maybe the universe does work in my favor after all, because I got the chance to get to know you." - Keira Vanderkolk