I wore black sneakers to my Grandpa's funeral

Now seems like as good of time as any to finally write this. Every time I thought the story was over, something else happened. It's epic, really.

I wasn't in a good mood last Tuesday. Not sure why, but I definitely had my grumpy pants on. I was tired and ornery, and decided to just go to bed early. So I did. I keep a picture of my grandparents on my desk, and I looked at it before I went to bed. Something felt off. Wrong.

I got the phone call at 5 am. My aunt was calling. I knew exactly what it was, but I let the phone ring. If she didn't call right back, then it wasn't anything too important, obviously.

She called right back.

My grandpa died that morning.

My first reaction wasn't shock. It wasn't disbelief. It wasn't tears. There really wasn't a first reaction. My aunt was crying, but I don't know if it was because I was so tired, or just had no idea how to react, but I just stayed quiet and calm. Of course, despite the fact that it was 5am, I couldn't go back to bed. Even if I could have gone back to sleep, it just would have felt wrong to. Like...I find out this terrible news and just go back to bed. I went into the living room and turned on the TV. I watched three episodes of Married With Children and finally fell asleep for a little while. That whole morning is just a blur of sleep and tears. I woke up again at 11 and couldn't believe it was so early. It felt like days had gone by since my aunt called, but it wasn't even lunch time.

Telling people was the hardest. I've never lost anyone before, so I'm just not sure what the appropriate behavior is. I decided sleeping all day was the best coping mechanism. Eventually I had to tell my roommates, which was the first time I had to say it out loud. It was hard.

To complicate matters, my grandma just had open-heart surgery the day before. She was doing well in recovery, but how do you tell her that her husband died when just had such an intense procedure? The worst part was probably coming to the realization that she wouldn't be able to go to Grandpa's funeral. We tried to work it out, but the funeral home couldn't hold on to him forever, and recovery from open surgery can take weeks, if not months. I went to work on Thursday, but about ten minutes into the day, I decided that I couldn't wait for the weekend to go home. I got online, bought tickets for the same flight Millie was flying home on (not having to fly back alone made a BIG difference to me), and by midnight, I was back in Detroit.

It was heartbreaking when we went to visit my grandma, because she still didn't know we were having the funeral without her. There was a lot of hostility within the family as to whether or not this was the right thing to do, but what was the alternative? In the end, she gave us her blessing to proceed with the funeral, and when she's feeling better, we'll have a memorial mass that she can attend.

So...the next few days were filled with typical bereavement. The hugs, the crying, the preparations, etc. Sunday was the first night of visitation at the funeral home. I wondered why they gave immediate family an hour before the rest of the people were invited, but it probably has something to do with how emotional everyone gets when you see the body for the first time. You want to be with your family, not trying to explain to your great aunt who you haven't seen since graduation how a person can get a degree in Television. I've never dealt with death before, so this was a new and most unsavory experience. The worst part was going through all of this while my grandma sat alone in a hospital room. She should have been there, and it hurt us all that she couldn't.

On Monday, we went to go visit Grandma before heading to the funeral home for more visiting. (Eight hours at a funeral home, is that normal? It shouldn't be. You really forget that you're even mourning when you're bored out of your mind and starving). I should also mention that the funeral was held in Bad Axe, Michigan. A very small farm community in the Thumb of the state. They are a different breed up there. They don't drive fancy cars and eat at expensive restaurant. They're simple folk, just as you'd expect a farmer to be.

Which is why I wore black sneakers to my Grandpa's funeral.

On the way to the hospital, we got a phone call that my other grandpa, my mom's dad, had a stroke, and that we should prepare for the worst. After the funeral, I went to see my Grandma one more time, before going back to Novi and seeing my other grandpa. When I said goodbye to him, I knew it was the last time, because at this point we all knew he wasn't going to make it much longer. Despite this, I still flew back to LA. What could I do in Michigan? Sit and wait for him to die? I just buried one of my grandparents. I needed a break. I needed to get back to normal, even if it meant flying back to Michigan a few days later.

Sure enough, I got that phone call on Saturday night. Grandpa B had passed. Time to go back home. This time I didn't take a whole week off. I just couldn't. I came home for two days, just for the funeral and burial. I don't know why, but this time around I wasn't as emotional. I think I was emotionally drained. I didn't have it in me anymore to grieve. Of course, that all changed at the funeral. I was fine for the most of it, but then came the part where all of the grandkids took up a rose and put it in a vase. There we were, all 18 of his grandkids, each one sobbing more than the cousin in front of them. My grandma was crying too, as was everyone else in church, as we all put our pink roses in the vase. At the end of the service, my aunt went up front and asked that we pray for the other relatives we have lost as well, and she mentioned my other grandpa. That's when it really hit me. The funerals were only a week apart. Grandpa Balagna died 10 days after Grandpa Ochoa.

Both were military burials, which I think are 100 times harder than a normal one because they play "Taps" and hand the folded flag to a family member.

It was a rough few weeks, that's for sure. But now I'm back in California, kind of employed, and moving on. Both of my grandfathers were sarcastic, funny, and loved to crack wise, and I know that's where I get it from. They lived long, happy lives, and it was just their time to go. The following poem was on the back of the prayer cards at both of their funerals. And yes, it still hurts when I have to say "both."

God saw that you were getting tired
And a cure was not to be,
So he put his arms around you
and whispered come with me.

With tearful eyes we watched you
and saw you fade away,
Although we love you dearly,
we could not make you stay.

A golden heart stopped beating,
hardworking hands at rest.
God broke our hearts to prove to us -
He only takes the best.