It’s been five months since my grandfather died, and I’m still hurting. One weekend, we were together for my uncle’s wedding, and the next, he was gone. Just like that. My grandfather was 82 when he died. He lived to see each of his children get married. He formed close relationships with his grandchildren. As an OBGYN, he delivered over 10,000 babies in the Milwaukee area, including me. He was able to retire at a relatively young age and spend his winters painting on his porch and playing golf in the California desert.  You’re probably thinking, this sounds like a pretty nice life. And it was. So I should be grateful. I should be grateful that I got to spend 22 years with my grandfather. I am grateful.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not hurting. I’m sad, and I’m angry, and I’m wondering why nobody taught me how to grieve.

In elementary school, I learned that drugs could kill me. Our D.A.R.E. officer, Officer Joel, warned me about the dangers of cocaine and heroin. I was ten. Three years later, I learned exactly how to make a baby. I had to memorize the names of ten sexually transmitted diseases, and their symptoms. I scored 100% and was the only girl in my class that spelled Chlamydia correctly.

I realize that programs like D.A.R.E and Sex Ed are important. But the thing about drugs and sex is, we can choose whether or not to do them. We have the power to “just say no.” When I found out that my grandfather was going to die, I reacted by sobbing and shaking my head, “no, no, no.” But it didn’t make a difference. He died. There was nothing I could do to stop it. 

In Judaism, when someone dies it’s customary to sit Shiva. You spend several days mourning at home while friends and family members stop by your house with large amounts of food. It’s almost like a party. Sometimes, you wonder if people have forgotten why you’re all together in the first place. When we sat Shiva for my grandfather, I spent most of the days in my bedroom. I only came downstairs to grab food, or to say hi to someone who was too old to walk up the stairs and come to my bedroom. Each time I came downstairs, I was disgusted to hear people laughing, gossiping, and overindulging in baked goods. I wished that instead of showing up with a Bundt cake, or a noodle kugel, that each of these people had come with a memory of my grandfather. I wished that instead of asking me about graduate school, or my impending move to Boston, they’d tell me something that I didn’t know about his life.

So the question I ask is, why are we so afraid to talk about death? Would it be inappropriate to teach children how to grieve when they lose a grandparent, or any loved one, for that matter? Maybe if someone had told me what to expect, I wouldn’t have been so shocked. But maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all. Maybe there isn’t a good way to prepare somebody for grief.