CONTENT WARNING: This article has mentions of terminal illness and sudden death

Cold air wafted inside of the plane, carrying with it the feeling of dread and angst. It was like sitting inside of a frozen carcass, the heavy smell of sweat lingering in my nose while the soft shrill of a child trailed in from somewhere farther up the aisle. Ten hours. Chicago flickered and danced outside my window as we tore off the asphalt. Ten long hours.

This was going to be the last time I saw him. 17 years of taking the same flight to the same town to see the same friends and same family, except for when we landed in Wroclaw and packed into my uncle’s tiny Fiat, I realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

I knew about cancer, but no textbook lesson or informational video could ever prepare me for the next month. Dziadzia (grandpa in Polish) was diagnosed in 2021. To me, it seemed like something he would just take another pill for — another problem he could solve like fixing the door hinges or chiseling the kitchen tile. It never really occurred to me how dark his diagnosis was until I saw it for my own eyes.

I walked into my grandma’s apartment to the smell of death in the air. The house seemed smaller than I remembered it in the past — wooden frames of old paintings and silk, ancient rugs seemed to shrink as I approached my family. There must’ve been fifteen of us in that tiny room. We hugged and laughed, crying tears of joy, but it all seemed so fake, as if the smiles on our faces were the designs of plastic masks used to disguise ourselves from the fact that someone was dying in the room next to us.

I opened the glass door to his bedroom and walked in. It was deathly silent. The TV glimmered in the corner, playing some infomercial with the volume off. The curtains were drawn over the windows, allowing for slivers of light to creep in from outside and peel the darkness off the walls. 

Just last Christmas he was able to get out of bed and greet us at the door as he always had. Not anymore. Not ever again. He could barely pull the blankets over himself when it got cold.

I approached the bed, and as I got closer, I felt a heart wrenching pain that wasn’t physical, but worse. I would’ve rather had to feel the pain of being shot in the leg than have to feel the presence of the demon in that room, grinning at me, scythe in hand, holding its watch to my ear so that I could always hear the tick-tick-tick of every second that passed by.

I grabbed Dziadzia’s hand, warm and soft, remembering when he used to have big, rough, blue-collar hands — hands that would pick me up and throw me in the air, or comb my hair, or scold me when I did something wrong. I leaned over and told him that we made it safe.

“Dotarliśmy Dziadzia, jesteśmy.”

His eyes lit up, and for a moment I saw a spark of life return to his face. He turned to look at me, a faint smile spreading from cheekbone to cheekbone as he struggled to keep his eyes open. I noticed the difference in his breathing, deep and laborious, and yet he managed to laugh when he realized it was me. I hugged him, but the cancer hadn’t left me with much to embrace. His body was small and shriveled, skeleton-like, but it didn’t matter. I held him lightly and told him I loved him. I said it over and over again, and I don’t think I’ve ever told someone I love them as many times as I did at that moment. 

After a month, cancer would win and Dziadzia would be gone. I wasn’t ready. Truthfully, I could’ve never been ready to lose someone that had been so close to me. Although I could’ve never prepared myself for his loss, what came out of it was something much more beautiful than the darkness that consumed me after he was gone.

I learned that loss is inevitable. I realized that at some point in every single one of our lives, we will experience the loss of someone close to us. It’s an inescapable and painful experience, but it all depends on what you do leading up to that moment when they take their final breath.

When he was on his deathbed, I had the longest conversations with my grandpa about all the things we used to do, how grateful I was for everything he’d done, and how proud I was. I stopped telling him that everything would be okay and that he would beat cancer, but rather I started to treat every breath as if it were his last. Every day was a chance to let him know that he did well in this life and that I loved him. I made him laugh and smile. I tried hard to make every second count so that when the end eventually came, I had closure in knowing that I did everything I could to make sure my grandpa had joy in his life amidst the suffering he was dealing with.

A few months later, I would experience that inevitable feeling of loss once again. It hit harder. Stung more. This time, it was sudden, not like cancer. Cancer drags on for months or years and you have a bit of time to come to the realization that the end is near, but it was nothing like that.

Alex was 18. He was on the Suzuki motorcycle he loved more than anything when the Dodge made that turn. 15 seconds. I had spoken to him the week before and we talked about making plans when summer rolled around. 15 seconds. That was not the kind of loss I could expect. One call and suddenly the same demon that lurked in the corner of Dziadzia’s room was on the other side of the phone, whispering the news in my ear.

Over the span of two months I lost two of the closest people in my life. The difference between them was that I had closure with my grandpa. I knew that he left this life feeling loved and cared for, and I did everything I could to make sure I healed any wounds, said every “I love you,” and spent every second being as present as possible. With my friend Alex, on the other hand, I didn’t get that final goodbye. I wasn’t able to tell him all the things I wanted to say, and it was too late by the time I made that realization.

Loss is inevitable, but we can make it easier on ourselves by making sure the relationships we truly care about are kept on good terms. I’ve been on both sides. I held my grandpa’s hand when he took his final breath and knew there was nothing else I could do, while at the same time I know I will have to wait a long time before I get to see

lex again and resolve some of those arguments or make the apologies I never got to make. Avoid the latter. Solve the troubles you have with that one friend. Apologize for whatever it is that’s on your mind. Try your very best to never go to sleep angry with someone you love, because you never know how quickly they can be taken from you. And love, love, love. Love as much as you can. There’s nothing you can do about loss, but you can make a difference in how much you love those closest to you so that when the time comes, you will have closure in knowing they left on good terms.

If I could go back and tell myself one thing, whether it was skateboarding with my friend Alex or playing soccer with my grandpa, I would’ve told myself to appreciate every single second I had with them — to not shy away from that one phone call, hangout, or accolade. Believe me when I tell you that loss can strike quicker than lightning, and it can cut deeper than any knife, but if we learn to appreciate every second we are blessed with those around us, maybe we can find resolution in their loss and become stronger in each and every one of our beautiful journeys.