My belief in God slowly began to slip, my motivation to continue shattered, and the smile I wore faded from existence.
There were two: one was so vibrant and vivid, while the other faded into the grey-blue sky. It rained for countless hours after 4 p.m. The sky slowly cleared, with small droplets of water on each window.
May 14, 2025, at 7:08 p.m., these two rainbows were painted across the sky at Henry Ford Allegiance in Jackson, MI. It was a perfect view from the sixth-floor lobby. Once it got dark, those rainbows were completely gone; the only thing you could see were the lights from patients’ rooms across the buildings.
My grandpa Smith got out of an appointment that took place at the hospital earlier that day, and then was rushed back after sudden complications at home. I never saw him in such a state before, lying motionless in the hospital bed. When I went to hold his hand, it was cold, stiff, and discolored, like he was already dead.
The sound and visuals of machinery have never been anything I feared. Buzzing, blinking lights, and beeping. His room was covered with these horrifying sounds. They were not the peaceful sounds that echoed at his home, like my grandpa’s warm and gentle voice. It was dead silence.
My grandpa always got up and went down to his shop every single day with his cane, and drove back to the Grand River in his golf cart to listen to the birds chirp. These birds were suddenly absent in the silent woods where they had frolicked before. Like they were hunted down and never were able to reproduce. Every single one of them, gone.
Death is expected, but life’s timeline is not predictable. It is a process of life that you can not escape, but when it happens so suddenly, it can be challenging to accept.
Bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The human body is capable of thousands of actions and hundreds of emotions. Within 72 hours, I felt like I had gone through millions.
Every door that closed sounded like a slam. Darkness crawled from underneath the door cracks, with my grandpa’s gentle voice being heard from behind, almost like he was waiting for me to open it. Eating habits: destroyed. Stomach: empty. Zoning out in class: essential. I did not want to face life anymore. I was crumbling in my own despair, with the door closed tightly, letting no one in.
Bargaining and depression chased each other like a cat and mouse. I kept thinking, if only I had asked to see him one more time before the X-ray, I could have said goodbye instead of “see you tomorrow.”
Standing before me was a despondent family, ashes in a box, and a small vial that had my grandpa’s heartbeat displayed on a piece of paper. A small fragment of him that still felt alive, the only thing that represented life, a pulse that was so little and insufficient. A pulse means living, but he was not alive.
I threw my cross necklace onto the ground, sniveling into my knees, “God, why the hell did you do this to my family, after all we praise you. You ripped away a husband, father, and grandfather. You took him, throwing him off the chess table like a useless pawn.”
This state in my life was the lowest I have ever been in. It felt like quicksand; every attempt to get out, I sank deeper.
Accept it, Miranda. Turning back time is not an option; if it were, mistakes would be eliminated, but we would no longer be living. They say things happen for a reason, but I disagree. Is it just a misfortune? Could it all be in God’s hands? Perhaps, but it is hard for me to tell anymore.
My grandfather left this world on May 15, 2025, leaving his legacy with our family and those around in the community. His strength, kindness, and cherishment keep his memory alive day by day, night by night. We are still actively healing, even after almost a year.
Walking back down to the Grand River is not as empty anymore. Those birds slowly returned, and so did a stable mental state. Big moments like death can shift your entire perspective, but it does not mean this is the end of the road. You can live.
In Loving Memory of Ronald James Smith.
We miss you every day, Papa.
