Loss, Grief, and Gratitude

That Thursday morning, I woke up in my hotel room in Chicago. I was there for a conference. At 3 p.m., I had a presentation that my team and I had been invited to give. I had showered and was doing my makeup while running through a few practice rounds of my part in the presentation.

My grandpa was in the ICU back home. Like every day that week, I called a couple of family members for updates—I never relied on just one person’s account. I spoke with my aunt, then my cousin. That day, he said something over the phone that suddenly made it feel urgent for me to go home.

I had been trying to travel back home since the beginning of the week, but my family kept telling me to wait to see if his condition improved. But after talking to my cousin that day, I had a strong feeling: I couldn’t listen to anyone anymore. I had to listen to my heart.

I attended the first session of the conference and called my mom. My dad insisted I shouldn’t make such a long journey, especially since I might not even get the chance to speak with my grandpa. My mom seemed torn. She didn’t want me to miss seeing him, but she didn’t want to push me either. She left the decision to me. By then, I had already made up my mind: whatever happens, I’ll get on a plane tonight and fly to Nepal from Chicago. If he gets better, maybe I’ll get to talk to him like I hoped. And if things go south, I’d rather cry with my family than cry alone in the States.

Right after the session ended, I talked to my boss—God bless her, she approved my extended leave without hesitation. I rushed back to my room and started looking for tickets. Suddenly, the flight I’d been eyeing on Google Flights wouldn’t let me complete the purchase. That hiccup threw me off. There was no way this could be happening, my heart and soul had already traveled home.

My husband was tied up in meetings all day, so he did not have time to help me figure out what was going wrong. Being in different time zones sucks. But thankfully, because of the time difference, my brother rescued me that day. No questions, no ifs or buts—he just helped me book the ticket.

In no time, I had a flight confirmation for 7 p.m. I packed everything into the suitcase I’d brought for the conference, ran to CVS for some essentials, ordered an Uber, and was on my way to the airport. It still didn’t feel real. But there I was, checking in and boarding a flight into the unknown.

The flight from Chicago to Doha was 13.5 hours long, and there was complimentary Wi-Fi onboard. I didn’t turn it on. Under normal circumstances, I probably would’ve been thrilled about that. But that day, I think I was protecting myself from any bad news that might come through.

Keeping the Wi-Fi off was my way of staying okay during the trip. My mom and aunts had all made subtle, hopeless remarks that kept replaying in my mind. I didn’t want updates. I had already accepted that whatever happens now, I’m on my way home.

When I reached Doha, there were no hopeful updates, but also no bad news. And that was enough for me. One of my cousins had said something like, “I see you’re hopeful about his condition, and that’s good. But wait until you actually see him and you’ll understand.”

I had an 8-hour and 40-minute layover in Doha. My sweet cousins called me one by one and kept me company for half of it. I already felt like I was home. That almost nine-hour wait went by fast.

I still had two more flights to catch before I could see him. But I was closer.

God knows how much I prayed on those flights!

On Saturday morning, I landed in Kathmandu. I picked up my bags and caught one last flight. By noon, I arrived in Pokhara. I went straight from the airport to the hospital. When my grandma saw me, she started crying. I couldn’t hold back my own tears either.

Soon after, I went to the ICU.

I saw him.

I froze.

What my cousin had said rang in my ears. Only then did I truly understand the reality.

My dad had been honest about Grandpa’s condition from the beginning. It was I who hadn’t wanted to hear it. Seeing him there unconscious and breathing heavily, I couldn’t say a word.

I stepped out after just a couple of minutes, full of tears. I met my cousin on the way back and cried with her, then went to see my grandma and the rest of the family again.

We left the hospital. I went home, showered, and ate a home-cooked meal.

Soon after, my other cousin arrived, and we went back to the hospital together. This time, we decided to go into the ICU together, side by side.

We stood on either side of my grandpa and spoke. For about ten minutes, we kept talking, hoping he could hear us. In those moments, we felt like he was trying to say something, but couldn’t.

And then he said a word. One distinct word in acknowledgment.
My heart stopped.

I had missed his last phone call. That haunting “Missed Call” notification had been etched into my memory. But that one word—his way of acknowledging us—lifted a small piece of that guilt. I knew then that he knew I was there. I was there, holding his hand, trying to have one last conversation—even if it was one-way.

(Later, after coming back to the States, a co-worker told me that hearing is believed to be one of the last senses to go before death. Even before knowing this, I had made peace with his one-word acknowledgment. But now, I feel even more certain that he knew his granddaughter was there in his final moments.)

Sunday was Mother’s Day in Nepal. My mom woke up early to go to the hospital. The doctors had advised us to take him home—there was nothing more they could do.

I later learned that my family had kept him in the hospital for my sake. They didn’t want to risk taking him home before I arrived. I’m forever grateful they waited.

I saw the sorrow in my mom’s eyes as she left that morning. I hugged her, wished her Happy Mother’s Day, and let her go.

Around 9 a.m., my dad and I went to the hospital too. The paperwork for discharge was underway. We arranged for an ambulance, an oxygen tank, and all that was required to take him home.

The world felt still, yet everything was moving so quickly.

The ambulance came. I would ride with him.

My mom began crying, and I remember feeling a wave of annoyance. He was still with us. I didn’t want him to hear us giving up.

I sat by his side, held his hand, and kept him updated along the way. His final wish had been to die at home. I let him know we were on the way, on the way home.

I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but when we arrived, I saw tears in his eyes.
He knew. He definitely knew.

He made it home.

Despite the doctors’ doubts, he made it. He spent a few hours in his house before he decided to rest forever. My grandpa did it in his own time, surrounded by his entire family.

I don’t think we can ever fill the void he left in our family, but oh boy, my grandpa lived abundantly and loved abundantly. We miss the glue that held us together, but we have a lot to learn from his life and even more to live in his honor.

I miss him so much.

I didn’t know what people meant when they said grief comes in waves. But now that I’ve lost someone, I understand it completely. Some days, I suddenly remember him and cry.

A few weeks ago, I was at the airport. I always used to call him before I went on a trip. For a moment, I had the urge to pick up my phone and call him, and then I remembered that’s not an option anymore.

Updating him about everything from the mundane details of life to travel plans and major life updates was our thing. Realizing I can’t do that with him anymore hurts.

I miss his encouragement about my travels. I miss his enthusiasm for life. I miss everything.

I guess that’s something we have to live with forever. But what a blessing it is to have something and someone so special to miss.

Often, I find myself sandwiched between emotions. I’m so grateful I was able to drop everything and leave Chicago in time. I got my closure. I got to say goodbye to him. If I hadn’t, I don’t think I would have been okay for a long, long time.

And yet, I also feel deeply sad. What if I had gone home sooner? We always think we have more time until we don’t. We had plans to go home at the end of the year, and I had imagined spending most of my time with my grandparents. But that wasn’t the plan life had in store.

Still, something greater aligned for me to be there when it mattered most. All the people and invisible forces that made this trip possible, I have no words to thank them.

It’s strange how grief and gratitude can exist together. I experienced a tremendous loss. But I also experienced a depth of love and connection that I can’t fully explain.

Honestly, I feel like I’ve been holding both grief and gratitude for a while now. And I think I always will.

If you’re in the same boat as me, I see you, I feel you, and I completely understand.

Alrighty, my friends, that’s all. Thanks for coming with me on this journey.

I’ll see you next time...