Life, we learn soon enough, is full of surprises and setbacks, challenges that are meant to be handled with all the grace and aplomb we can muster. Some, however, slay you. They begin small, a pebble in the shoe, and grow slowly, sometimes without notice, and before you know it, you’re carrying a boulder on your shoulders.
For me, that’s the best description of long-distance grandparenting. No matter what I do, no matter how many times I visit, call, text, and FaceTime, the torment of distance between my out-of-town grands and me is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The breadth and depth of the loss is astounding. And I don’t use the word “loss” loosely. Nor do I write about the grief lightly. I don’t want to guilt trip the parents or push them away with my neediness. After all, this generational leave-taking has been happening for millennia.
The last of my sons left for greener pastures this past summer, taking with him the three dumplings who used to spend every Sunday with me. His brothers, those with children and those without, had preceded him. I know them to be happy, fulfilled, comfortable in their new surroundings. I, on the other hand, walk around with a heart scraped raw by circumstances I can’t control — and, honestly, don’t want to. How can I begrudge them their wonderful opportunities?
I’ve mostly kept my counsel, whining only to my friends about this peculiar kind of loneliness. It gets better, I tell myself. The heartache of separation will ease in the same way other heartaches have. All sorrows scab with time and familiarity. What’s more, my late daughter’s daughter still lives in Miami, a 25-minute drive away, so her presence should surely assuage the pain.
It hasn’t. The sense of interminable loss doesn’t go away. Being removed from the everyday, the unscripted and the unplanned remains a sharp stab-and-twist to the heart. Lately, I’ve realized that this is a different kind of grief, one that expands with each grandbaby born, each milestone reached, each school function or sports match missed. Worse: The older the grandkids get, the more difficult it is to connect, not for lack of trying on either side. The reality of life — tons of homework, afternoons full of extracurricular activities — gets in the way.
Here’s another odd thing: I never mourned the empty nest. While my daughter stayed in Miami for college, her four brothers willingly left the comfort of home-cooked meals and accessible laundry facilities. I, in turn, celebrated my newfound freedom. They would return, I thought, work, marry, start families. Not. Far. From. Me. I’d see the grandchildren frequently, if not daily.
I don’t need to tell you the ending of that delusion.
I shouldn’t complain. Some grandparents have it worse. They are estranged from their children or the next generation lives half a world away. The only granddaughter of a close friend, for example, just made her home in London with her parents. Another friend watched, shocked and bereft, as her little grand moved to Australia with Mom and Dad, probably forever.
I don’t have to journey so far for cuddles and kisses, so I remind myself how lucky I am. Tonight I’m packing for yet another road trip that will take me to four different cities. I’ve vowed to be grateful for what I have and when I have it. I’ve vowed to live in the moment, to not steel myself in advance for the desolation that follows every visit. I’ve vowed to not be a sentimental sap about the situation.
But it’s hard, so very, very hard, and the burden so heavy.
Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.
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