A close family member passed away recently. I’ve lost a few close family members. Aunts, uncles and my father’s mother. But this loss hit a little different.
At the funeral her daughter asked if anyone wanted to say anything. One of my cousins volunteered and he did an incredible job of being able to recall memories and arrange them in a heartfelt speech on the fly. I wanted to as well. But I didn’t. I was still in shock, I still couldn’t fully process it. Maybe I just didn’t believe it or didn’t want to believe it. Long story short I regret not saying anything.
When my mom called me to give me the news I was speechless. I didn’t cry. I didn’t react at all. And that was surprising, especially since I react—sometimes overreact to almost everything. Is this lack of instant sadness an ADHD thing? I don’t know. But I was flooded with guilt because of it.
The guilt of not processing things fast enough combined with my failure to say something nice on the day with her funeral compelled me to write this. It’s not as good as saying something the day of. But at least I get to say something.
My cousin was more than just a cousin. She was like an older sister. We grew up blocks from each other. My parents had a pool and in the summer she would come over with her kids and spend the day swimming. Her father—my uncle had a summer home in Michigan. We would spend every Fourth of July and additional weekends at the house swimming in the lake and going on their boat.
Any guy I dated I always wanted her approval. I think because she was so honest. I admired that about her. Not many people will give you their honest opinions. But she always did.
She was an amazing mom. The way she interacted with infants was nothing less than magical. And she taught her kids to be strong and independent. Not by force but by demonstration. I don’t know too many women as strong willed as her. She never gave up. No matter what shit was thrown at her she had the ability to regroup and keep going.
Her daughter mentioned her laugh at the funeral and how it was so contagious. Nothing could be further from the truth. Her sense of humor and boisterous raspy laugh was everything. I truly enjoyed staying up all hours of the night having conversations about every thing and nothing at all and just laughing the night away. That is one thing I will miss always. In fact at her funeral I can’t count the number of times I accidentally looked for her because I wanted someone to chat with and forget about being there. So weird right? I guess it’s just habit to search for your favorite people when you need them.
I’ll remember her ham and pickle dip she made every family party that I love so much. And that weird Italian mouse out of the dinner napkin that I used to force her to make constantly. I’ll remember going to her house for Christmas Eve and loving that more than actual Christmas Day. I’ll remember making videos with her kids and her laughing the loudest. Staying up all night in Michigan and talking. Working with her at Ulta and Rembrandt. Watching her interact with her children and loving the relationships she had with them. Her love for animals. Playing scrabble and always losing against her.
Most of all I’ll miss our connection. They say that friends are the family you choose. And in this case I was blessed with a cousin I would have chosen to be my friend.
After the funeral the grief kicked in. I’ve cried at the oddest times. It just hits you like a ton of bricks—except you’re looking the other way and you have no clue bricks are being thrown at you. I’m sure it will happen again. And that’s ok. I don’t think there’s a normal way to grieve whether your neurotypical or not. I do wish you were given more time to process things before the funeral. But it is what it is.
I will miss you cousin. Forever. I still can’t believe you’re gone. And even though you’re gone I know I’ll still be looking for you in Michigan and family parties. I know nothing can stay the same forever so I’m grateful that I got to have you as my cousin and the time we shared together. But I will miss you. And I hope there’s an afterlife. One with a scrabble board, ingredients for the ham and pickle dip and a napkin. I’m gonna make you do the Italian mouse as soon as I get there.
Love and miss you always.
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